


The Brock and The Buck

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, animal/human hybrids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22392133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: Take apart your bones and put 'em back togetherTell your mama that you're somebody new- St James Infirmary Blues
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 42
Kudos: 268
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	1. St James Infirmary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Kali](http://kalika999.tumblr.com) who kindly bid on me in the Fandom Trumps Hate 2019 auction.  
> A thousand thanks to Kittie for beta reading, enthusiasm and support (as well as a mutual love for Blues classics)  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) reblogging the work of funnier people than me

The Quinjet banks sharply to the left as they approach the mountains - not so hard that it sends Natasha’s travel mug of coffee over the controls, but enough to have Steve grab one of the handholds positioned around the cabin.  
“Romanov?” he shouts over to the pilot seat.  
“Geese,” she shouts back, pulling at the controls until the jet levels out.  
Steve looks out the window. Sure enough there is a flock of geese to their left, flying in a V formation.  
“That wouldn’t have affected the engines,” Steve calls, watching as they disappear into the low hanging clouds.  
“No,” Romanov says patiently. “But the engines would have affected the geese.”  
She glances over her shoulder at him, flashing a quick smile before bringing the jet down until it is skimming over the treeline. There is a patchy pine forest that creeps up the foothills, the trees becoming sparser the higher they climb. The Quinjet climbs with them, the hot air blasted from its exhausts making the branches shake off the dusting of snow they had gathered overnight. From the view in the cabin, it looks like no human has ever set foot in this place, until the moment it doesn’t. The trees part to reveal a valley, hidden in the mountain range. There, beyond the reach of passing satellites and drones, stands an old fortress.  
There is nothing charming or picturesque about the site; high stone walls marked with serried rows of featureless windows, ringed by ramparts set with guard towers. There are a few courtyards visible, one to the East where another Quinjet is already parked, and one to the South, where the blackened remnants of a fire stain the walls. Figures move around the still smouldering wreckage in hazmat suits.

Rollins comes into the cabin as they approach, file tucked under his arm, and joins Steve at the window.  
“Not exactly a honeymoon destination,” Natasha says, steering the jet towards the East courtyard.  
The Strike team had been sent out before dawn, expecting another abandoned laboratory and a lot of paperwork. Instead what they found had Steve and his unit suited up and moving out, despite being based halfway around the world.  
Steve eyes Natasha’s travel mug. He’s been awake 34 hours and he’s still not sure if a stolen gulp of coffee is worth getting his ass kicked. Ask him again in three hours.  
“Don’t even think about it, Rogers,” Natasha snorts, reaching for the travel mug and taking a dainty sip.  
There is a clomping of boots up the gantry, and Barton comes slouching into the cabin, still pulling the last straps of his uniform into place. He had climbed into the jet back in New York half-dressed and sucking on a can of red bull, then passed out as soon as they were cleared for take off. “Where are we?”  
“Sokovia,” Steven says, gesturing to Barton’s unbuckled left boot.  
“So-what-via?” Barton ambles over to the empty co-pilot seat, sitting down and grunting as he reaches down to fasten his boot.  
“Didn’t you read the file?” Natasha asks, guiding the jet down to the ground. It lands with the slightest bump.  
“I glanced at it.” Barton snags her mug while she goes through the engine shutdown procedure, letting out a pleasured moan that makes Steve’s eye twitch.

“Jack,” Steve nods to him. “Since it’s your first time, why don’t you do the honours?”  
Jack grunts, pulling the file from under his arm. It’s been seven hours since the Strike team first entered the fortress and there’s already a dozen pages in the file. There will be a lot more by the end of the day.  
“Strike team entered the site at 05.21 EET.” Jack frowns. “That’s about 23.00 our time, right?” Steve nods, waiting for him to go on. “Looks to have been a major laboratory site, extensive medical facilities, cells, a high security training yard. Hard to say much more at this point as they trashed the equipment before bailing.”  
“They knew we were coming?” Natasha asks sharply, ever suspicious.  
Jack shakes his head. “It was the exodus that got our attention.” He pulls out a sheet from the file, a satellite image of a fire burning in the courtyard.  
“That’s all it took?” Clint mutters, still sipping at Natasha’s coffee.  
“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Steve says, almost to himself. “Heat signatures, chemical dumps, power banks, water usage. Signs pointing to something going on, which is why the Strike team were sent to investigate. Most of the time it all adds up to nothing, or they find a meth lab.”  
“But not this time,” Clint says, looking troubled. He has good reason to.  
“Alright, you know the drill,” Steven says as the engines fall silent. “Stay sharp, and keep your comms open.  
There is a murmur of assent and he opens the door, stepping out into the courtyard.

On the ground the Strike team are twitchy, on edge, and the agent that comes over to meet them has the wide-eyed, shellshocked look of a first timer. Poor kid. How long has it been since Steve was last called out? There was a time not too long ago when it seemed like every month they were raiding working labs. When Pierce was still alive and spreading his nasty little agenda. When crates and cages and cryotubes were changing hands for more money than Steve would ever see on a payslip.  
Where was the last place? Siberia? That must have been four, maybe five months ago, and the last time they found a live specimen must have been in San Francisco.  
“Captain?” the agent clears his throat, his empty hands clenching and unclenching.  
Steve blinks. He’s woolgathering, his mind wandering when it should be focused on the job. He looks behind him, to where Jack and the others are waiting, and turns his attention to the kid.  
“Agent…?” He’s not wearing a nametag, and Steve has seen too many faces come and go at Shield to remember him.  
“Klein, sir.” He gestures over his shoulder. “If you’d all follow me?”

The fortress is as grim and unwelcoming on the inside as it is on the outside. The towering walls do nothing to keep out the cold, and Steve is freezing his ass off more on the inside than out in the weak winter sun. The smell of damp stone and rainwater does little to mask the underlying odour that seems to seep from the walls - sweat and fear and blood.  
Klein leads them down a set of stairs and through a series of rooms, empty but for the odd signs of recent habitation. Tables and chairs stand idle, their contents swept away. Filing cabinets have been hauled open, their drawers ransacked. A few stray papers have survived, and a Shield agent gathers them up, slipping them into evidence bags with hands clad in nitrile gloves. The equipment too large and unwieldy to drag outside to the fire has been destroyed; computer terminals smashed with hammers, lab equipment overturned.  
Steve’s heartrate kicks up a little when they approach a doorway covered in a sheet of plastic, but it is Natasha who asks the question weighing down on his tongue.  
“How big was the operation?”  
Klein flinches at her voice, before pulling himself together, turning around to face them. “Substantial.” He fidgets with his file. “This isn’t some basement operation to make a few bucks, this was… I mean they had a full chem lab, a team of technicians in-house, and cell space for up to thirty subjects.” He shakes his head, horrified. “There’s a dormitory on the west wing we haven’t even looked at, even a cafeteria. They had kitchen staff.”  
Natasha glances at Steve. “We haven’t seen a set up like this since…”  
“St James Infirmary.”

A position on the Strike team is highly coveted, and when a spot opens up the competition is fierce. Jack had managed to fend off around 300 other hopefuls for his place on the team, with eight solid months of interviews, training regimes, a full medical and psychotherapy. The turnover rate is high, with burnout commonplace. Hell, Sam did well to last five years. He’s a damn sight happier now, living a quiet life in Washington. Assignments like St James Infirmary are the reason so few stick it out.  
St James was an abandoned hospital in a recession-hit town in northern England. Not enough funding to keep the wards open and the lights on, so they boarded it up and walked away. The labs, the CT scanners, the hospital beds, all gathering dust, waiting for new funding or the swing of a wrecking ball, whatever came first. And then the Splicers snuck in.  
A fully operational hospital, there for the taking. Steven still wakes up shaking, the smell of piss and sepsis choking him no matter how many lungfuls of cold air he gulps down.  
St James Infirmary. Hell on earth.

“So. Uh.” Klein pulls back the thick plastic drape. “If you’ll follow me?”  
Beyond the drape is a narrow hallway leading to several large rooms. There are gurneys lined up along the wall, the Shield-issue white body bags lying on them makes everything else seem duller, unclean.  
Steven tries not to look at the bags, to count their number. His gaze lingers on the last, the bulk of it oddly misshapen, before forcing himself to look away.  
“We found them in the cells,” Klein explains. “Of course full autopsies will be performed back at base, but the initial exams suggest they died of exposure, one or two look to be dehydration.”  
“Nasty way to go,” Clint mutters, pausing beside the last bag. There is a strange odour to it, briney and stale.  
Klein leads them past sets of double doors along the hallway, and Steven catches brief glimpses of the rooms beyond. Debris litters the floors, glass and plastic and the occasional lab table, the stainless steel surfaces dented and dulled.  
“We called it in as soon as we realised it wasn’t another wild goose chase,” Klein says, hesitating at a reinforced door. The keypad to the side is blackened, a soot stain trailing up the wall above it. “And when we found some of the subjects were still alive…” He nods to Steve. “They… uh… they…”  
“You couldn’t get near ‘em?” Natasha finishes, and Klein nods, an edge of desperate relief in his expression that someone gets it.  
“Not surprised,” Clint sniffs. “This place stinks.”  
“Yeah,” Klein tries to smile. Fails. “It’s pretty musty.”  
Clint twitches his lip, revealing a long canine. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Klein pushes open the door, fingers flinching at the scuff marks and gouges where the two doors meet. With the keypad damaged they must have cut through the locks to get inside. Overhead are strips of fluorescent lighting, half of them burned out and the rest flickering intermittently. The smell catches Steve off guard, and he has to take a step back, turning his face away and covering his mouth with his hands.  
“Jesus Christ,” Jack wheezes. “What the hell is that…?”  
The room is lined with cells, small cubicles fronted with iron bars. In the nearest cell a metal framed cot is bolted to the floor, a thin, stained mattresses, sagging in the middle, has been dragged onto the floor.  
The air is thick with rot, cloying and sickly sweet. Flies buzz lazily overhead, gathering on the flickering lights and settling on the stained floors of the empty cells.  
Natasha blinks once, the only sign she’ll give of discomfort, and starts walking along the line of cells.  
There is something under the stench of decay, under the fear so thick it coats Steve’s tongue. Something musky, almost earthy.  
Natasha stops in front of a cell, head cocked to one side. There is something still in there, backed into a corner. Clint walks past her, stopping a few cells ahead. The metal cot has been torn up out of the stone, the frame twisted and jagged, and shoved against the corner of the cell with the filthy mattress, a barricade.  
On the floor, close to the bars, is a bottle of water and a protein bar. The cell looks empty, but Steve can see a sliver of silver wrapper poking out from under the mattress. 

Pierce is dead.  
As much as Steve had thought about ending him, all those countless nights where he lay in bed and imagined his hands around the bastard’s throat, when the moment came he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t compassion, or fear, or some lingering sense of devotion that stopped him, quite the opposite. Steve wanted the bastard to live. To rot in a cell for the rest of his days. It would have been apt, in some way, to see him on the other side of the bars. Fate had other plans, and in the end Sam had made the call, taking him down before he reached the killswitch that Steve had missed. _Justified_ , the verdict had been, and no one had questioned Sam’s decision. He had quit shortly after, calling Shield just another Aviary.  
Pierce is dead, and that should have been the end of it. But with his research still out there, in recovered files changing hands for wads of cash, others had been quick to fill the void, and once something is up in the darker recesses of the internet it’s hard to kill. All they can do is pluck the weeds where they sprout.  
Pierce is dead, and looking into the cells makes Steve want to exhume his corpse and kick it to splinters. For taking people, desperate, vulnerable people, and trying to make them compliant, obedient. The perfect soldier, loyal and ruthless, a splice of human and something, sold on the black market to the highest bidder.  
“What are they?” Jack asks, pulling Steve from his grim thoughts.  
Steven shakes his head, he needs to focus. He looks over at Jack, his focus on the shape at the back of the cell. He’s human, too human, and can’t smell what lurks under the rot and decay.  
Klein shakes his head. “We were unable to extract samples for testing, but we've been calling them the Brock and the Buck.”

Splices have characteristics that hint at their genetics. Some like Scott are barely perceptible, at least if you’re not an ant. Just a mild, acidic smell about him and unprecedented strength. Then there are the ones like Barton, for whom the phrase ‘hangdog’ seems to have been invented. The physical things can be masked, teeth can be surgically altered and markings removed with laser surgery, behaviours can be suppressed. Some even manage to fit back into society unnoticed, but the ones that don’t find themselves working for Shield in one form or another. Like calls to like.  
“Jack, why don’t you take point on this one,” Steve says, and Jack gives him a startled look.  
“Sir?”  
“This is the Brock, right?” Steve asks Klein.  
“Uh.” Klein checks through his file. “Yes. The techs called him a Honey Badger after he ripped through a hazmat suit. Caucasian male, about 175lb, hair and eyes brown. Strong, fast, and gotta punch like a freight train apparently.”  
A Brock and a Buck. The Brock is feral, a challenge, and one that Steve would normally take on himself being the senior agent. But he is needed elsewhere.  
“You think you can handle it, Jack?” Steve asks, and Jack gives a single, sharp nod.  
Klein holds out the file, but Jack ignores him, moving to pull back the deadbolt on the cell door.

“Cap?” Jack says softly, as the Brock hidden in the far corner growls at the sound of metal on metal.  
“Go in,” Steve urges. “You trained for this, you can do it. Stay calm, he can sense fear.”  
Jack steps into the cell, eyes watering a little from the smell of decay, thick and cloying. He pulls the door shut behind him, but leaves it unlocked.  
“Keep your body language open,” Steve coaches from outside the bars. “Move slowly. Don’t back him into a corner, let him come to you.”  
Jack squats on the ground a little way in from the door, keeping his elbows on his knees, his face turned away from the bedframe. When nothing happens he shuffles forward a little, stopping when a low growl fills the cell. There is an answering noise from the other occupied cell, a low hiss.  
“Easy, big guy,” Jack murmurs, sitting still until the growling stops. He waits a few minutes before shifting forward again, gaining ground inch by careful inch.  
The growl becomes a snarl, and the bedframe rattles, a bruised hand pushing the mattress aside. The Brock comes into view, tense and ready to strike. Beneath the dirt and the stubble is a careworn face, a web of scar tissue above his eye.  
“Hey there,” Jack says, meeting his gaze. “My name’s Jack, I’m here to help you.”  
The growl is cut off the moment Jack starts speaking, but he remains tense, hands clasped.  
“You got a name, buddy?” Jack asks before sliding another inch closer. “You hungry?”  
He pulls a candy bar from his tac suit, and tears open one end, taking a bite before putting it down on the ground between them. “It’s good,” he says, his mouth full. “You want some?”  
The Brock makes no move towards it, and Jack sits down on the floor, legs crossed, ready to wait all day if he has to.

At Steve’s gesture Natasha moves away from the cell with him, giving Jack space to work. He’s made it through the first five minutes, so chances are he’ll get through the next five.  
“Stay close,” Steve murmurs to her, and turns his attention on the other occupied cell.  
Barton relaxes a little, stepping back as Steve and Klein approach. He doesn’t need to be told to stay close, instinct wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise, not until the order to back down is given.  
Steve peers through the bars of the cell. Like the other cells there is a bed, though this one has not been torn from its moorings. The mattress has been ripped open, the springs and sawdust spilling out making it look like a gutted animal, and thrown over the bed frame. Not a barricade this time, a shelter. Lengths of rusted chain lie on the concrete floor.  
Whoever (Steve never allows himself to think whatever, only who) is in there is awake and alert. And afraid. He hears a crackle of wrapper, and soft sounds of chewing, and Steve doesn’t need to look to know the Brock has snatched the candy bar.  
“Tell me about the Buck,” he says to Klein, his voice low.  
He has already read the file a half dozen times on the flight, but Klein keeps staring at the cell, and if he keeps it up he’ll be a liability.  
“Oh. Right.” Klein picks through his file and pulls out a sheet of paper. “Caucasian male, maybe 180, 190lbs? Hard to tell with the chains. Height is…” Klein shakes his head.” hard to determine with the… uh… effects of Splicing.”  
“Back up a sec’,” Barton interrupts. “Chains?”  
Klein nods, lips pursed, and looks back down at his file rather than the people around him. “The… the Splicing has resulted in alterations to his outward appearance, however we can’t say until further testing what internal -”  
“Chains?” Barton repeats, a little louder.  
“They chained him up,” Klein says, clipped and a little too loud. “We… we tried to get them off, but couldn’t get near him, and he was already injured so… so we left them on.”  
Clint turns on him, teeth bared and canines prominent, and Steve moves between them. “You did the right thing,” he says quickly, and for a moment he thinks Klein is about to start welling up. “If you’d tried to handle a newborn Splice you would have done more harm than good.”  
“Yes, sir,” Klein whispers, and Barton backs down, bristling but unwilling to make a scene.  
“You have the keys?” Steve asks, and for a moment Klein seems to think he means the cell door, which is closed with just a deadbolt. He catches himself, pointing to a thick metal loop hanging by the cell, several keys hanging from it. Steve nods, taking the keys, and pulls the bolt back on the cage.  
“Let’s go say hello, then,” he murmurs, and steps inside.

Under the stink of decay and the wet sawdust smell of maggots feeding on rot. Under the stale sweat and piss and terror that fills the cells, there is a sweetness. Not the florid, sickly odour of decomposition but something musky, earthy, like wild honey and nettle pollen.  
Steve crouches down in the center of the cell, shoulders back and head tipped to one side. He listens to the sound of Jack in the other cell, his voice steady and low, and the intermittent rasps from the Brock in return. Steve moves, little by little, across the floor to the cot. While the frame itself is intact the metal bars across the bed have been twisted out of shape, jagged and poking out like broken ribs. The gutted mattress has been spread out over the frame, blocking out light for the Buck hiding within. Steve touches the torn edge of the mattress, and wonders why the Buck went to so much effort?  
Slowly, telegraphing each movement clearly, he leans closer. He doesn’t block the entrance to the hide, angling his body so he can withdraw quickly, and peers into the gloom.  
Steve has good eyesight, good enough that he can walk around his apartment in the dark and not knock into things. Blue eyes stare back at him, the skin around them patchy with grime and some kind of skin discolouration.  
“Hey,” Steve says softly. “We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”  
The Buck shifts, and Steve catches brief impressions of the shape of him; broad shoulders, splaying fingers, flaking manacles clamped around wrists.  
The Buck seems calm, his pulse elevated but not spiking, and Steven holds up the keys, giving them a shake. “How about we get you out of those things?” he says, his tone light. “I’m Steve. You got a name, pal?”  
The Buck scrubs his right hand over his face, the rattle of chain dull and jarring. He’s filthy, but the sooty marks around his eyes don’t seem to be all dirt. His hair is long and matted, tangles catching on his fingers. The manacle on his wrist is stained with dried blood, the smell dull and muted.  
“James.” His voice is low and unsteady, catching on the ‘s’ with a slight lisp.  
“It’s good to meet you, James,” Steve murmurs.

The splicing process is traumatic, with a high risk of everything from amnesia to partial brain damage for those that survive the process. _Chimera_ , Pierce had called them, vain bastard.  
“Where are you from, James?” Steve asks, reaching up to move the mattress back and shed a little more light. The Buck flinches, turning his face away from the harsh fluorescents. He’s dressed in the same clothes as the Brock, thin polyester scrubs that do nothing to ward off the cold. The fabric might have been white once, but now it is a dingy grey and heavily stained.  
“James?” Steve says again when the Buck doesn’t answer.  
“Uh.” James scrubs at his face again. There’s blood on his wrist, long smears dried a dark maroon “Corn. Tall. Couldn’t find the road again. Chigger bites, little fuckers.”  
He smiles suddenly, a brief glimpse of sharp white teeth, and then whatever memory he had caught the tail of slips out of reach, and the smile fades slowly.  
“Well I wouldn’t know about that,” Steve says absently. James’ left arm is twisted behind his back, and Steve can’t get a look at it. “Brooklyn born and bred.”  
“City boy,” James teases lightly. That’s a good sign. He’s shook up and disoriented, but his mind is still sharp.  
“It’s okay,” Steve reassures him. “You’re okay. We’re gonna get you cleaned up, take a few tests, see what we can do-”  
James recoils, digging his bare heels into the concrete floor and forcing himself back. There is a dull rattling sound, like a stick striking the cell bars. “No.”  
He doesn’t shout. The noise he makes is something far more desperate, barely uttered. There are faded marks up the inside of his arm, pinprick scabs dotting the crook of his elbow.  
“No needles.” Steve holds his hands up, keys rattling. “Just a cheek swab, see if we can find out who you are.”  
James shakes his head again, and there’s that rattling sound again, a discordant clatter. “No.”

There’s a reason Pierce never had trouble finding volunteers. Even now, with the Splicers run to ground, there is no shortage of desperate people willing to sign waivers they don’t understand. The homeless and the terminally ill and the people that have fallen through the cracks, hoping that the treatment will cure them or change them, give them a chance to start over. They’re never told about the bids, or the crates, or the freezers. They’re never warned about how the chance of survival is low, or shown the mass graves where there are shovels and plastic tubs of lime. They never get to leave if they change their mind.  
Maybe James will change his mind later, but for now Steve won’t push.  
“No tests, I promise,” he says, meeting the Buck’s eye. “Might have to insist on a bath though.”  
James’ mouth twists up in acknowledgement, and Steve holds up the keys. “Let me take care of that?”  
For a moment he thinks he’s been too quick, too flippant, and James will retreat to the shadows again. He blinks rapidly, mouth working as he tries to untangle the mess of sensation in his head.  
“Hurts,” he says at last, succinct and understated.  
He holds out his wrist, wincing as he twists his shoulders, and Steve picks through the keys, looking for the most likely candidate. The third attempt fits the lock, and he twists the key until he hears a click. The manacle doesn’t fall away, and James lets out a soft hiss. Steve takes a closer look, wincing a little when he sees the problem. In his struggles the cuff has torn at his skin, making it swollen and tender, and from the looks of it infected. The dried blood has fused to the metal, sticking it in place.

“Clint?” Steve calls out to where he is watching Jack and the Brock’s progress. “Can you throw me a bottle of water? And get some clean bandages?”  
While they all keep basic supplies in their tac suits, Barton is the one with a full first aid kit. He’s the one most in need of plasters or painkillers, so he’s the one who has to carry it around. A moment later he steps into the cell and rolls a bottle of water across the floor towards Steve. After a few seconds fumbling a couple of plastic-wrapped crepe bandages come rolling after, and Barton steps out of the cell again, knowing better than to crowd around.  
“How’s Jack?” Steve asks, unscrewing the cap on the water bottle.  
“Good.” Clint keeps her gaze distant, not focusing on the shelter or the Splice huddled inside. They may be similar in size, but Clint will smell like a predator to James, and making eye contact can only be interpreted in one way between predator and prey. “Looks like some kind of brain damage or trauma. No memories, no language. Nothing.”  
“Does he speak?”  
“Yeah, a little bit,” Clint rubs his nose. “Ain’t exactly loquacious like this guy.”  
“It’ll come back or it won’t,” Steve reassures him. “Give it time.”  
Barton nods, retreating from the cell, and once he’s gone Steve approaches James slowly. He holds up the bottle, and James offers his hand.  
Steve pours a little of the water over James’ wrist. It flows to the concrete floor, tinged with pink and grey, as Steve gently rubs at the tender skin, detaching it from the manacle a little bit at a time.  
“Can you move your fingers?” Steve asks, wincing in sympathy as James lets out a low curse. His thumb twitches, and he bites back a whine.  
They sit in silence, Steve working as gently as he can. Blood flows, fresh and vivid in little rivulets down James’ pale arm, gathering at his elbow and falling to the floor in fat, ruby beads. At last the manacle peels away, smacking the ground with a heavy clang that makes James flinch. Steve tears open one of the sterile packs of dressings, wrapping the wrist quickly and clumsily.  
“I’m not much of a doctor,” he says, apologetic. “But this’ll keep it from getting any worse until we get you proper treatment.” He nods to where James has his other hand behind his back. “You feel up to doing the other one?”  
The Buck doesn’t move, his bandaged hand held up to his chest.  
“James?” Steve whispers. “James, just let me get this thing off-”  
“I can’t!” James chokes out, all the quiet strength and patience he has displayed finally crumbling, his voice cracking, and he shakes his head, a slight twitch from side to side, shivering with something far worse than the cold.  
“Hey. Hey.” Steve reaches out, a breach of protocol, and presses his hand to James’ cheek. He leans into it, blinking rapidly as his eyes begin to water, suppressed sobs making his chest rise and fall rapidly. He sucks in great gulps of air, expelling them in stuttered moans, and Steve swipes his thumb back and forth under the sooty smudges that feather out to his cheeks. 

James swallows, grimacing as he brings himself under control, sucking in even breaths until his lungs remember their rhythms and his heart settles.  
“Let me see?” Steve asks softly, and James gives a sharp little nod. That dull clattering sound again, it seems to only happen when James moves his head.  
Steve crawls a little further into the twisted wire burrow, easing a little more mattress back to shed some more light. James screws his eyes shut, angling his face away from the harsh strip lights, and Steven can see the problem immediately. His left shoulder is dislocated, no doubt from struggling against his restraints. The left shoulder juts out at an odd angle, his arm hanging limply from the sleeve of his scrubs, knuckles bloody from where they’ve scraped the floor.  
Steve reaches out, pausing to meet Bucky’s eye, waiting for an almost imperceptible nod before continuing. He lays a gentle hand on the joint where arm and shoulder should meet, smoothing back to where his shoulder blade juts out sharply. James bites back a low whine, digging sharp white teeth into his lower lip, and Steve shushes him, murmuring reassurances as he presses his thumb to tender, swollen flesh.  
“Okay,” Steve lingers longer than necessary, rubbing his knuckles against the slope of James’ shoulder. “That’s dislocated.”  
“No shit,” James wheezes, sweat beading on his brow as he breathes through the pain.  
“You’re gonna have to put up with it a little longer, pal.” Steve gives him an apologetic look. The swelling is too severe, he can’t risk making it worse. “Gonna need an x-ray and a bunch of meds before we even touch it.”  
James lets out a quiet groan, but doesn’t resist when Steve gets to work on the other manacle, just closes his eyes and counts his breaths until it’s over. The cuff hits the floor with a dull clang, and James swears under his breath.  
“Okay, pal? I need you to sit tight for a minute, can you do that?”  
James cracks open one eye and gives Steve a half hearted glare. “Oh yeah, I’m just raring to go.”  
Steve huffs, and gives him a gentle pat on his good shoulder. “Soon have you fighting fit, Buck.”  
The word slips out, and James gives him a wide-eyed look.  
“James,” Steve says quickly, and then stops trying to backpedal. They’ll get nowhere if he can’t be honest. “Buck is what it said on your file. It’s just a filler word until we get your details.”  
“Buck,” James says again. “Huh.”

Natasha is still keeping watch on both cells, while Barton has gone wandering off. Steve can’t blame him, the stale odour of blood and fear must put him on edge, bringing long-repressed memories rising up to the surface.  
“How’s Jack?” is the first thing out of Steve’s mouth, and in answer Natasha nods to the other cell.  
Steve walks over, half expecting to see little change since he left Jack to his work - the Brock mashed into the corner and Jack sliding candy bars across the floor to him. Instead he finds them sitting side by side, Jack scrolling through pictures on his phone while the Brock looks on intently. His head snaps up as Steve approaches the cage, and he lets out a low, rasping bark.  
“Easy now, Brock,” Jack says quietly. “This is the Captain, you remember I told you about him?”  
The Brock sniffs, eyeing Steve warily before turning his attention back to the phone.  
“You giving away state secrets, Jack?” Steve asks with a smile.  
“Well, when you put it like that, Cap…” Jack tucks the phone back into his tac suit. “Just letting Brock here know what’s coming, an’ that he’s got nothing to worry about.”  
“You two ready to clear out?” Steve can’t keep the surprise out of his voice. Either Jack has made a serious mistake, or Brock has taken a real shine to him.  
“Ready when you are, Cap."  
The two exchange a glance, fleeting but with an undercurrent that catches Steve’s attention. He looks back to Natasha. From the arch of her eyebrow she must be thinking the same thing. It’s not uncommon for attachments to form between agents and the Splices they retrieve, Barton and Natasha are no exception, though their dynamic isn’t what most people think it is. But a Splice will cling to the first person who shows them kindness, and that kind of loyalty… well it can be good or it can be bad.  
“How about your guy?” Natasha gives a pointed look to the cell, the door hanging open. “Clint says he’s a talker.”  
“He’s cranky and sarcastic,” Steve says, a soft edge in his voice.  
“Well, that’s promising,” Natasha smirks. Sam had cussed a blue streak when he was sprung from the Aviary. Steve had known the second his leadership skills were called into question that Sam would turn out fine.  
“Get them on the Quinjet as soon as they’re ready,” Steve orders, putting all that to one side for now. “And where’s Clint? I need the medkit.”

Barton is soon located in the next room with Klein, who is looking a little pale and queasy. Steve finds a suitable bandage in the kit after a brief search, and leaves Barton to babysit Klein while he goes back to the cells. It is no less unpleasant a place to return to a second time, and he is quick to get through the bars and to the shelter. The sooner they’re out of this place the better.  
“Okay, James?” Steve unwraps the sling. “Can you move over here, I’ll get this on you?  
James doesn’t budge an inch. Steve bites back a sigh and crawls into the shelter, pulling on the mattress to give him light to work with. It snags on something, and when he tugs it James lets out a sharp little bark of pain.  
“You alright there, pal?” Steve murmurs.  
“I’m kinda tangled,” James says, brow wrinkling. His clothes must be caught on the bed frame somewhere.  
“Okay, we’ll take care of that, but first we gotta get your arm strapped up.”  
James looks at the sling in Steve’s hands. “This gonna hurt?”  
“Yeah,” Steve admits. “It’s gonna hurt.”  
James shuffles around, giving Steve better access to his left side. It takes a bit of effort and some sharp, gasped curses, but James’ limp and useless arm is finally secured.  
“Okay, let’s get you on your feet,” Steve says, reaching behind him to find where he’s gotten stuck.  
There’s nothing. No barbs, no chains, nothing at all.  
“Look up,” James mutters, and Steve looks up at the mattress ceiling, raised up by the bent and broken bed frame.  
“Oh.” Steve utters. Soft and awed.

“Up we go, nice and slow,”  
It took a bit of work with his pocket knife, and the mattress lies in scattered pieces around the cell.  
Steve loops James’ good arm around his shoulders, and slowly rises to his feet. He’s careful not to touch James’ wrist, but he must slip or something, as James lets out a sharp grunt, grimacing in pain.  
Steve doesn’t want to guess how long he has been cramped up in his burrow, chained to the wall and listening to his cellmates die one by one.  
“Okay, take a breath,” Steve says once they are standing. James’ head tips forward a little, aching under the weight. “Good. You’re doing great, pal. Just a couple more steps.”  
They make their way to the door, taking it slow as James drags his stiff and unresponsive feet along the floor.  
“Just a little further,” Steve promises, glancing up to see Barton reversing into the room, pulling a wheelchair with him.  
James turns to the Brock’s cell as they pass. The cell is empty, and Natasha is nowhere to be seen so they must already be on the Quinjet.  
“He gonna be okay?” James asks Steve quietly.  
“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine,” Steve reassures him. “You know each other?”  
“Not really. Wasn’t all cocktail parties and wild orgies down here.”  
Barton snorts, spinning the wheelchair around to face them. He slips, losing his grip on the handles, and the chair wheels slowly towards them, knocking against Steve’s hip.  
“What the fuck?” Barton yells.  
“Barton,” Steve snaps.  
“Sorry, Cap,” Barton points at James. “But seriously, what the fuck?”

There are few laughs to be had on assignment, so Steve doesn’t begrudge the Strike team for their initial assessment. They weren’t wrong.  
Steve runs through the report he’ll need to file once they’re en route to headquarters. Male. Blue eyes. Brown hair. Some form of vitiligo or hyperpigmentation around his eyes. Antlers.  
There’s probably another term for it, but that’s what his thoughts keep sticking on. Antlers, curving up from his long, tangled hair, spread out like tree branches.  
“Well, that is something else,” Barton whistles, and Steve gives him a sharp look. “Oh, right.”  
Barton hurries over to grab the wheelchair, turning it in a circle and bringing it behind them so Steve can lower James into it.  
“Oh, thank fuck,” James sighs, sinking into the seat.  
“Oh, he’s a talker,” Barton says, looking impressed. “Hey buddy.”  
He raises a hand, keeping his gaze slightly out of focus and to James’ left.  
“Hey,” James says slowly. “Thanks for the wheels.”  
“You’re welcome.” Barton steps back and let’s Steve take control. “Elbows in, the Cap here is a shitty driver.”  
“Thank you, agent Barton,” Steve says crisply, taking hold of the wheelchair and pushing it towards the door. He catches an uneven jag of concrete, jolting James almost out of his seat.  
“Ow, fuck.” James gives Steve a sly look. “He ain’t wrong.”  
“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve mutters as Barton sniggers.  
Something must rattle loose in James’ head, because he tilts his head up and gives Steve an innocent look. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”  
Steve pushes the wheelchair out into the hallway, taking care not to knock into anything while James helpfully points out obstacles in their path. Or adjacent to their path. Or on the far side of the hall.  
“Well this is going in the report.” Steve mutters as he maneuvers around Klein, standing in the doorway with his stack files. “White male, aged 35-40. Collosal jerk.”  
“Fuck you, pal.” James’ mouth crooks up. “I don’t look a day over twenty five.”

They glide past agents in hazmat suits, cataloguing and recording the damage. Death and torture packaged up in plastic evidence bags, carefully recorded.  
James shivers in the cold air as they reach the courtyard, the sunlight bronzing his antlers as he raises his head, turning his soot-smudged face to the sun.


	2. Mustelid

Things snap into action once the Quinjet touches ground back at Shield. It might have been several months since they were last called out for a retrieval, but that doesn’t mean anyone has been sitting idle in the meantime.  
The Brock is moved to their secure facility, Jack electing to stay at his side and make sure the transfer goes smoothly. It doesn’t sit too well with Steve, who would rather see the care of a possible Feral in the hands of a team rather than a single agent. But no one else has such a calming influence on the Brock. There is a single, disastrous attempt to hand over care to one of the medical team, and then Jack removes himself from the active duty rosta to supervise his recovery and integration.   
James, on the other hand. Well, James couldn’t be more different.

“Hey,” James winks at a nurse they wheel past, who is doing her best not to stare. Her best isn’t very good, and she keeps trying to steal glances as she passes. “Aww, come back an’ say hi,” James calls after her, which only makes her scurry away faster. James leans half out of the wheelchair, twisting around as best as he can with his arm in a sling, and watches her go. His antlers knock against Steve’s arms.  
“Cut it out,” Steve sighs. James hasn’t quit so far, but maybe the fifth time’s the charm.  
“Aww.” James rights himself, slumping back into the seat. He tilts his head up until his eyes meet Steve’s, antlers poking him in the chest. “Can’t you go any faster?”  
“Just sit still, will ya?” Steve grumbles, gently pushing a tine away from his ribs.  
In the flourescent lights of the medical facility, James does not paint a pretty picture in his filthy scrubs and tangled, greasy hair. But he is alert and engaging, possibly a little too much, with the world around him. Steve can’t tell if the interest in the staff really is flirting, or just his way of coping with people staring.  
Steve takes a left at the next junction, stopping at the nearby nurse’s desk. The nurse on duty glances up at them both, and makes a quiet little sound.  
“Hey darlin’.” Bucky leans forward a little, shaking his antlers from side to side. “You just lookin’ or are you buying?”  
“Jesus Christ, Buck,” Steve hisses, and James snorts at him. “I’m sorry about him, his way of coping with trauma is to be obnoxious. We’re here to see Dr Banner?”  
“Right this way, Captain Rogers,” she says, leading him through a set of doors.  
“Oh, _Captain_ ,” James croons, and Steve would give him a clip round the ear, but the guy might have brain damage or something.   
“Right through here,” the nurse says, keying in the code to one of the consultation rooms. The door opens with a click, and she pushes it open so Steve can wheel through. “A shower and a clean shirt,” she adds as they trundle past. “Then I might make a purchase.”  
She shuts the door before Steve can say a damn word, and Bucky gives him a smug little grin.

Dr Banner, the chief of staff, is a quiet, measured man with wiry grey hair and patience that Steve occasionally envies. He looks up from a well-thumbed file as Steve wheels James into the room, giving them both a brief smile before picking up a plastic wrapped tube and walking over to meet them.  
“Captain Rogers.” His voice is warm and rough-edged from a lack of sleep. “You must be the Buck I’ve heard so much about.”  
“What gave it away?” James asks lightly.  
“Well, you’re the only person in this room not wearing shoes.”  
James looks down at his bare feet, the soles black with dirt, and wriggles his toes. “Least they ain’t hooves?”  
“Thank God for small mercies,” Banner says, and holds up the tube. “Do you know what this is?”  
“No, but if you’re planning on putting it anywhere near my ass, I’ll kick your teeth in.”  
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve sighs. “It’s just a cheek swab.”  
“Mouth only, I promise,” Banner brushes the tube against the back of James’ hand. “That’s all it is, just a quick swipe with a little Q-tip, then we send it for testing.”  
“If you wanna know what I was Spliced with, I can probably guess.” James tilts his head, antlers swinging.  
“It’s not just about Splicing,” Steve explains. “If you or someone in your family were in the Military, or have a record, we’ll have a shot at confirming your identity.”   
“If you don’t want the test, that’s fine,” Banner says. “We’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. Not here.”  
James’ mouth works a little, like a cow chewing cud. “Alright, fine,” he says at last. 

After the cheek swab, Banner clips a little device to James’ finger, noting the results on a chart. He takes several vials of blood, writing on each label before dropping them all into a bag for processing. James doesn’t make a sound while the blood is drawn, staring resolutely at the opposite wall and gritting his teeth.  
“Don’t you got a nurse for all this?” he finally asks when the last vial is drawn.   
“Why?” Banner asks lightly. “I’m not your type?”  
James snorts, and Banner presses a wad of cotton to the puncture in his arm. With his free hand he holds up a box of plasters. “Spiderman or Elsa?”  
“No Bambi?”  
“I’ll put some on order.”  
“Fine. Elsa.”  
Banner applies the plaster before gathering up his bits and pieces. He disposes of his nitrile gloves and needles before picking up the chart and making a few notes. “I’m sending you down to X-Ray, we need to take a look at that arm before we decide how to proceed.”  
“And then?”  
“You’ll need to stay with us a while.” Banner tucks the file under his arm. “Is that alright?”  
“Do I got a choice?”  
Banner purses his lips. “We’re here to help you,” he says slowly. “To recover and reintegrate into society. And that will take time, but you’re in good hands, I promise.”  
“That sounds like a no,” James mutters.  
Banner turns to Steve. “Can you take him down to X-Ray?”  
Steve shakes his head. He really should have handed James over when they left the Quinjet, and the more time passes, the harder the exchange is going to be. “I need to debrief with Hill.”  
“Of course,” Banner says, and gestures to Steve to hand over control of the wheelchair. “Well, Mr Buck, let’s get you down to X-Ray.”  
Steve holds open the door for them, and Banner starts wheeling James down to the lift.  
“Dr Banner?” Steve calls after him.  
Banner pauses, turning around to him. “Is there something you need, Captain?”  
“James.” It’s a stupid thing. James is more than capable of telling Banner himself. “His name is James.”  
Banner nods once, and continues wheeling James down the hall, until they are both out of sight.  
Steve’s hands feel empty, and he folds them behind his back, clasping tightly until the sensation passes.

*

“Captain Rogers.” Maria Hill’s voice sharpens. “ _Steve?_ ”  
Steve stops short of actual flinching, looking up from the report he’s been staring at for the last five minutes. He can’t recall a single word of it.  
“Sorry,” he sighs, pushing the file aside. “It’s been a long day.”  
“Did you get any of that?” she asks, lips quirked. Steve has nothing against Jack Rollins, but his reports are… a little on the dry side.  
“It all seems to be in order,” he says carefully.  
“No concerns.”  
“About an unhealthy level of codependency between them? Yeah, of course I have concerns.” Steve rubs his eyes. “As it stands the Brock is at risk of being classified a Feral, and I’d sooner have a functioning, albeit unhealthily, Splice than a sedated one.”  
There were a lot more Ferals in the early days. With the refinement of the Splicing technique it’s less common, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Some people can’t come back from what was done to them.   
“And the Buck?”  
“James.” It’s almost automatic now. “He goes by James.”  
“And what’s his status?”  
Steve still hasn’t filed his report. It’s the next thing on his list, followed by as much sleep as he can get away with. “James is an asshole.”  
Maria lets out a startled laugh. “Is that your official assessment, Captain?”  
Steve shakes his head. “No, he’s… He’s cocky. He uses humour to deflect from his physical and emotional trauma. He’s antagonistic towards authority figures, and while he is willing to do as instructed he will make the process as difficult as possible -”  
“So, he’s an asshole?”  
Steve huffs, resting his tired head in his hands. “I’m removing myself from active duty,” he tells his palms. “So I can focus on being his primary support.”  
“You sure you want to do that?” Maria asks. She sounds amused.  
“Yeah.” Steve scrubs at his eyes, but it doesn’t stop them from aching. 

His phone buzzes as he leaves Hill’s office, and he swipes the screen with his thumb, opening a message from Banner: no sign of fractures so proceeding with muscle relaxants and reduction.  
Steve closes the message and pockets the phone. With James being prepped for treatment, Steve should go home and shower, wash the charnel house stink from his clothes and his heart. Instead he takes the lift down to the canteen and grabs a sandwich. He finds a quiet table and sits down, picking at the sandwich while he painstakingly types out the days report on his phone before submitting.  
He walks back over to the medical facility, dragging his feet like a damn zombie.   
The nurse tells Steve that James has been allocated a private room, where he’s sleeping off the sedatives, and Steve creeps through the ward until he finds the right door, turning the handle as gently as he can manage and slipping into the darkened room.   
James lies on a hospital bed by the window, the headrest lowered and pushed away from the wall to make room for his antlers. The light slicing through the blinds patterns his bed in stripes of colour and grey.  
At some point in Steve’s absence, he has been given a fresh set of clothes. They had enough sense not to give him a set of scrubs, instead providing a t-shirt and pyjama pants in a muted shade of blue. James lies curled up on his side, face pressed to the pillow, one antler dipping over the edge of the bed while the other spears up to the ceiling.   
Steve brings a chair over to the bedside, and positions it facing the window. From there, he can see the city as the day draws to a close, watching as the clouds are lit in burnt orange from the streetlights below, and falls asleep where he sits.

*

“Hey.” Something bats lightly against Steve’s cheek. “Wake up, idiot.”  
He cracks open his eyes, and his neck twinges, sharp enough for his breath to catch. He’s slumped in a hospital chair, the kind that looks like it should be comfortable, maybe even a little bit ergonomic, but after five minutes has every muscle in your back screaming for mercy. James is patting his cheek with a crooked finger, careful to avoid knocking the IV line taped to the back of his hand.  
“Ow,” Steve wheezes, grasping the arms of the chair and hauling himself up.  
James smiles at him, soft-edged and unfocused. He must be on so much morphine. “Go home,” he mumbles. “Y’stinking up the place.”  
Three things occur to Steve in quick succession. James lisps a little bit, sounds catching on his teeth. His eyes are very pale in contrast to the inky smudges around them. He is beautiful, even more so when he smiles, which he does frequently and with ease.  
“Uh,” Steve says dumbly, and James flicks his nose.   
“Go home,” he slurs, he’s drifting off again, struggling to stay awake. “Come back…”  
Whatever else he had to say is lost, and his hand goes limp, hanging in the air between them. Steve sits up, gently moving it back on to the bed.  
“Sure thing, Buck,” he murmurs, and quietly gets to his feet.  
Home. Home and a shower and something to eat, and maybe after that he’ll feel human. Probably not.

*

While on active duty the majority of Shield agents stick close to New York City, unless on assignment elsewhere. Even with the steep drop off in active cases (and no one is complaining about that), no one wanders far from home base. Barton lives over in Bed-Stuy and that spider-kid that’s in awe of Natasha is over in Queens.   
The point is, few stick around once they’ve tapped out. Last Steve heard Scott was back in San Francisco reconnecting with his ex, and Sam moved back to Washington the same week he handed in his notice. Steve tries to imagine living somewhere other than New York, but doesn’t know where to start, he’s lived in the city his whole damn life.   
He’s loath to admit it, but he does feel better after a shower and a change of clothing. And a decent amount of sleep. He goes for a morning run around Central Park, and maybe if he ever turned in his cards he could live somewhere with trees. Lots of trees, maybe a lake or something. Forests to go running in, and not have to worry about other people around him, or running right into the back of someone gawping at their cellphone. He grabs another shower when he gets back and eats breakfast while checking his emails.   
He doesn’t check his watch, doesn’t count the hours since he left the med facility or calculate what would be a respectable amount of time before going back.  
Of course he doesn’t.

The Buck is awake when Steve checks in, responding to the tap at the door with a soft rasp that sounds vaguely like ‘yes’. Steve cracks open the door, bundle of files and a travel case under his arm, and peers into the room.  
“Hey, stranger,” James twitches his antlers in a semblance of a wave. “All that for me?”  
Steve pauses. He looks… not good, but better than he did the last time Steve saw him. There’s a little more colour in his complexion, under the tangled mat of straggly hair. His posture is a little less stiff, morphine masking the pain and making him lax and drowsy.  
Steve looks down at the files. “Yeah,” he admits. “I swear every damn person I’ve seen has given me a report to fill out today.”  
James winces, and tips his head to the empty chair still beside the bed. The blinds are cracked open, light spilling into the room, and Steve takes the silent offer, pushing the door shut behind him and walking over. His spine twinges, as if in warning, as he sits down and arranging the files in his lap. “How you doing, James?”  
“I…” James pauses, dragging his teeth over his lower lip. “I feel like shit.”  
Steve coughs out a laugh, bringing Dr Banner’s file to the top of the pile. “Well you’re doing better than you feel,” he says, scanning the report. “X-rays came back clear, which is good. It’ll take maybe two, three months for you to get full movement in your arm again, but Dr Banner will set you up with a physiotherapist.”  
“Yeah.” James blinks slowly. “Yeah, Doc said as much.” He falls quiet for a few minutes, neither asleep nor awake, and Steve skims through the rest of the report.  
“Sorry,” James mumbles. “Not much for company.”  
“That’s alright, pal,” Steve reassures him. “I got a dozen things to fill out here, so don’t feel you have to entertain me. Get some sleep.”  
His eyes flick up to meet Steves. “You’ll be here?”  
“Yeah.” Steve unzips the travel case and pulls out his laptop. “I’ll be here.”

James wakes again when one of the nurses comes in to check his vitals. He takes the prodding and poking with good grace, asking if she has a boyfriend in a way that seems borne out of habit than something sincere. It almost looks like play-acting, or at least that’s what it seems to Steve, especially when he keeps trying to steal her pen, or the watch she has pinned to her scrubs.  
His movements are too slow, too clumsy, but she laughs, scolding him lightly before turning her attention to Steve.  
“Captain Rogers,” she says sweetly. Uh-oh.  
“Yes, Darcy?” Steve closes a file on his laptop and looks up at her.  
“If you’re gonna take up space here I gotta put you to work,” she says with a sly smile. “If I bring some towels down can you help him get into the shower?”   
“Hey, you promised me a sponge bath, lady!” James says, looking mock-offended.  
“I promised no such thing!” She gives Steve a sideways look. “He strikes me as the handsy type.”  
James juts out his lower lip, mock-offended. “You’re mean.”  
“You only say that because I won’t give you any coffee.”  
James glances at the bedside table, where Steve’s empty coffee cups have been accumulating. “Mean.”  
“That’s not a problem,” Steve interrupts, and gives a nod to the door. “If you could get the towels, please?”  
Darcy stops short, giving him a hasty little nod. “Right away, Cap,” she says and quickly scuttles out the door.  
“Be nice,” James murmurs, smiling at him.  
“I am nice,” Steve counters. “Stop flirting with the staff.”  
James’ smile ratchets up a notch. “Jealous.”  
“Am not,” Steve retorts, knowing exactly how that sounds. He shuts down his laptop and stows it away under the table, breathing heavily through his nose.  
“Just being friendly,” Bucky says, slurring a little of the _st_. “Not my type.”  
Curiosity gets the better of him. “So what is your type?” Steve asks, but James just closes his eyes and dozes off again.

Darcy returns a little while later, carrying fresh scrubs and several thin white towels. Handling them gives Steve a brief sense memory of every cheap hotel he’s ever stayed in, the stiff, bleached fabric that seems to only move the water around the body rather than absorb it. He drops the bundle on the bed, and goes off in search of a few more things before gently shaking James awake.  
“C’mon, Buck,” he says as James rubs his eyes. “You’ll feel better after a shower.”  
“I’d feel better after coffee,” James grumbles, but lets Steve help him to his feet.  
The room has an ensuite toilet, a little cubicle in the corner with a sink and a hand towel, but the showers are down the hall.  
Getting from the room to the hallway is slow work, James’ movements stiff and uncoordinated. He grips the IV stand with his good hand, the other still strapped to his chest, and they shuffle along the polished white floors, Steve’s hand on his back to offer support.  
It’s hardly any distance at all, but James is pretty winded by the time Steve pushes the door shut behind them, dropping the supplies on a nearby chair.  
The room is not far off the size of his hospital room, the floor covered in non slip linoleum. On the far side is a small window, cracked open to let in some air and making the room a little too cold. It feels cavernous, despite not being all that large, with nothing taking up the space but a couple of plastic chairs and a shower affixed to the wall, a drain beneath it.  
“Classy,” James wheezes as he takes a look around.  
Steve nods. There’s no shower curtain, nothing to hide behind, and he feels unpleasantly exposed. Objectively, he understands the set up, patients with limited mobility can be helped in and out of the shower by however many nurses are needed. Subjectively, a blind or two wouldn’t go amiss.

“Alright,” Steve says when neither of them have moved after a few minutes. “We can do this sitting down if that’s easier on you?”  
“Jesus,” James whispers, and shakes his head. Steve moves one of the plastic chairs over to the shower anyway, in case he changes his mind or gets dizzy.  
“Okay, let’s get this off,” Steve mutters, mostly to himself, and unfastens the strap of James’ sling.  
“Oh, like that, huh?” James’ lip twitches, revealing a blunt tooth. Steve ignores him, easing his arm out of the sling. James bites back a sharp sound, baring his teeth, and Steve murmurs an apology. He tries to move slowly, more gently, but getting the clothes off means moving the arm. James falls silent as Steve works his injured arm through the sleeve, sweat beading on his brow and he wheezes and gasps, trying to breathe through the pain. He shivers, unsteady on his feet, and clings to the IV stand with a white knuckled grip, and Steve has a sudden urge to rip the t-shirt to shreds.   
“Nearly done,” he says instead, easing the bunched fabric over James head. Despite the wide neck it still gets tangled on his antlers. “How the hell did they get this on you in the first place?”  
“A lot of morphine,” James wheezes. “Good times.”  
Steve takes hold of an antler, the texture unlike anything he has touched before. Hard as bone, but deeply ridged and warm, like tree bark. “Sorry,” he mutters, pulling the t-shirt free and dropping it to the floor. “The rest will be easier, I promise.”  
James sucks in another breath, trying to smile but it won’t stick. “Can’t wait to g-get my pants off.”  
Steve is startled by his own laugh, a breathless chuckle pulled up from somewhere deep in his gut. James lowers his head, his smile settling in place, as if some part of him is strengthened by the sound of laughter.

There’s no way James can wash himself, the man can barely stand. Steve takes a step back, taking his phone and wallet out of his back pocket and dropping them on the chair with the towels. James looks up, watching him through his tangled mat of hair as Steve takes off his jacket and throws it over the chair. He tugs at the hem of the t-shirt underneath, pulling it off in a fluid gesture before throwing it over the jacket. Last of all he slips off his shoes, nudging them under the chair.  
He turns back to see James staring at him, eyes wide. Steve flushes, tamping down on the rush of embarrassment and resting his hands on his hips.  
“Eyes are up here, Buck.”  
“Yeah, but I’ve seen them already.”  
The blush deepens, flowing like a river down his throat and spreading out across his collarbones. Steve folds his arms across his chest, hunching over a little as if it could make him look smaller. “C’mon, man.”  
“C’mon nothing.” James lets go of the IV stand long enough to flap at him, gesturing for him to lower his arms. “Work of art needs appreciating.”  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. It’s a terrible idea, terrible and inappropriate, but he lowers his arms. “You happy?”  
“Ecstatic,” James says. “The rest of it coming off?”  
“No.”  
“What if I say please?”  
“ _James!_ ”  
“Fine then,” James huffs, nodding to the shower. “Do the honours?”

It takes a few minutes of fiddling with the taps to get the shower to a temperature James will tolerate. First it’s too hot and then it’s too cold, and after a while Steve gets the feeling James is fucking with him. He declares the water fine and reaches for the hospital soap, hanging from a hook from the pipes next to the shower gel. James eels out of his pants, kicking them across the floor, and edges over to the spray of water, dragging the IV with him.  
There is strength in him, under the bruises and the dirt and the bone-deep exhaustion. He dips his head under the spray, letting it soak into his hair and run in rivulets down his face, closing his eyes with a sigh. Steve moves behind him, waiting for permission before laying a hand on him. James groans, deep and low as Steve rubs shower gel into his back. The smell is bland and faintly medicinal, chosen for those with heightened senses not adjusted to the world yet.   
Water sluices away the grey lather as soon as its formed, the puddle of dirty water accumulating around James’ feet washing down the drain. After a few fumbling attempts at washing himself, antlers thunking against the showerhead, James gives up, and lets Steve get on with it, sighing in frustration at his own failings. Steve tries to reassure him, tries to tell him that he’s already made progress, that he’ll be on his feet in no time. He’s not sure how much is heard, or if James even wants to hear it. Water soaks into Steve’s hair as he works, pouring down his back and spattering his pants. It will dry soon enough, and he pays it no mind.

With a little encouragement James washes his face, cupping his hands under the spray and splashing water everywhere. He scrubs at his skin with bare hands, sloughing off the worst of the grime. The sooty smudges around his eyes remain, and he rinses his mouth out a few times, spitting into the drain.  
Steve switches the soap for shampoo, and has James move to the edge of the shower while he pours a generous amount onto his scalp. Steve is hesitant at first, wary of getting near the antlers.  
“They ain’t made of glass,” James grumbles. “Get over yourself.”  
Steve huffs, digging his fingers into James’ hair. At the base of each antler is a ring of raised skin, and underneath he can feel a hard ridge of bone. Does he shed them in the winter? Or do they keep growing?  
James sighs as Steve massaging in the shampoo, teasing his fingers through the worst of the tangles and snarls. He sounds at peace, for the most part, cursing when Steve’s watch gets caught in his hair.  
“Sorry,” Steve says, easing the watch free, a few strands of hair caught in the buckle. James’ hair is almost black when wet, and combined with his inky eyes it reminds Steve of one of the guys down in Engineering. He’ll have to introduce them.  
“Okay, rinse,” Steve says at last.   
James shuffles about under the spray, tilting his head back to keep the soap out of his eyes. He wobbles a little, clearly getting fatigued from standing so long, and clips Steve on the head with an antler. Steve figures he’s safer up close, and moves under the water with him, stroking his fingers through James’ hair and wringing out the lather until the water runs clear. He shuts off the shower, the steam dispersing quickly in the cold air.   
The room feels oddly silent without the patter of water and gurgle of drain, just the steady drip-drip-drip of water as James shakes his head, the light squeak of castors as the IV stand moves along the floor.

Steve grabs a couple of the towels from the chair, and quickly wraps one around James’ waist, taking care not to pay too much attention to what he’s covering. He tucks the corner in and reaches for the nearby chair, pulling it over.  
“Come on,” he says, his voice too loud in the damp, rapidly cooling room. “Sit down a minute.”  
James doesn’t resist, sinking into the seat with a breathless little sound of pain, and Steve wraps another towel around his shoulders. He glances over at the fresh clothes Darcy had brought, and the little case tucked under them.  
“So, I’m no expert,” he says, tugging at a knot in James’ hair. “But let’s say we do something about this.”  
James gives him a doubtful look, and Steve fetches the case, unzipping it to reveal a pair of scissors and a comb. There are a few black plastic clips tucked into the case as well, but he has no real idea what to do with them.  
“What d’you think, Buck?” Steve gives him a cautious smile. “Just a bit of tidying, I’ll try not to do a terrible job.”  
James sighs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “Well. You can’t make it worse.”  
“Oh, that sounds like a challenge,” Steve’s smile gains a little confidence, and he pulls out the scissors, giving them an experimental _snip-snip_ before he gets started.

Steve wasn’t being coy, he doesn’t know the first thing about hairdressing. His Ma used to cut his hair as a kid, sitting him in front of the vanity mirror in her bedroom while her hands danced around his scalp, teasing strands of hair out from the unkempt thicket and snipping judiciously. Sometimes she’d put him to work on her hair, giving him prickly, bright pink little rollers to wind strands of hair on the back of her head around. It was something she was always proud of, the soft golden curls that fell past her shoulders. At the end her hair had been like the rest of her, dull and limp against the hospital pillow, the colours faded away.  
“Steve?” James says softly, and he realises that he has fallen still. “Where you at?”  
Steve clears his throat, picking out another knot at the nape of James’ neck and snipping it away. He doesn’t have to answer, he could just pass it off as nothing, but he doesn’t. “I was… I was thinking about my mother.”  
Steve braces himself for a joke, a sly remark about his mother being a goat or something, but it doesn’t come.  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.” Steve drags the comb through James’ hair, tugging through a snarl. “She was a nurse.”  
James doesn’t comment on was, and Steve is grateful. He moves on to the next tangle, working the comb through what he can and cutting away what he can’t, until there is a corona of dark hair on the floor around them. He doesn’t cut the rest of it short, leaving as much length as he can. He’s seen James play with it, twisting a strand around his finger or gripping a handful and tugging, and he’s loathe to deprive him of a way of self-soothing.  
“Okay, I think we’re done,” Steve says, pulling off the towel around James’ shoulders and shaking off the worst of the hair. He brushes off a few stray strands from his bare back. “Think you can get up?”  
“Screw you, I’m unstoppable,” James snorts, and then hauls himself up by the IV stand.

With a little help James gets back under the shower, rinsing off any stray hair and scratching his fingers over his scalp. He seems happy enough with the results, and lets Steve pat him dry and help him into the new scrubs. The hot water must help with the shoulder a little too, as they manage to get the top on with a minimum of swearing. At least this one, again in muted blue, has a few buttons at the throat that, once unfastened, give enough room to get it over the antlers.  
Steve puts the sling back on last, checking that its secure before pulling on his own t-shirt and jacket, ears burning when James complains half-heartedly about it.  
“Feel better?” Steve asks.  
James grimaces. “Feel tired.”  
“Well, no wonder.” Steve leads him over to the door, feeling a twinge of guilt for the mess left behind. “Let’s get you back in bed.”  
“Smooth,” James huffs, but lets Steve get the door and usher him into the hall. They stop off at the Nurses station, and Steve apologises for the mess before snagging a package of wet wipes lying on the side.  
They walk back to the room in slow, shuffling steps, and Steve knows better than to say reassuring things. He hated it when he was a kid, and however well-meant it was it always felt condescending.  
James heaves himself onto the bed with a relieved moan, lying flat on his back with his damp hair spread out on the pillow. Steve adjusts the IV stand, checking the line and the bag before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I can feel you staring,” James mutters, eyes shut.  
“Well, can’t imagine what that must be like,” Steve teases, and James cracks open an eye.  
He does look better for the shower. There is a little more colour in his complexion, a little more brightness about him. The sooty smudges around his eyes are still there, and Steve holds out the pack of wet wipes, hoping that alcohol will clean what soap couldn’t. “Sit up for a minute?”  
James sits with a token gesture of grumbling, and Steve pulls a couple of wipes from the pack. He bundles them up and draws them under James’ right eye. Nothing happens, and he checks the wipe to see if there are any traces of black on them, but they are clean. “This isn’t coming off.”  
James frowns at him. “What’s not coming off?”  
Steve stares at him in return. There are no mirrors in the room, nor were there any in the shower. James keeps looking at him, waiting for an answer, so Steve digs his phone out of his pocket and turns on the camera. With a tap of the screen he switches it to selfie mode, and hands it over.

James doesn’t panic. He doesn’t rub at his eyes, trying to scour away the black smudges that fan around both eyes. He just turns his head from side to side, taking in his new reflection curiously, and bares his teeth.  
That makes him flinch, startled by the serried rows of molars where canines and incisors should be.  
“Well, guess I ain’t a Muntjak,” he says, handing the phone back.   
“A what?” Steve looks down at the phone. James’ thumb must have touched the camera button, because there is a picture of him saved, nose wrinkled and head cocked to one side. He doesn’t delete the picture.  
“The little water deer.” James taps his teeth. “With the big vampire teeth.”  
“Sorry pal,” Steve shakes his head. “Must be some other kind of deer.”  
“I ain’t never seen a deer with this on their faces.”  
Steve hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. “I tell you something, the lab guys nearly had a fit when they got your swabs.” Half the reports he had been toting that morning had been the lab techs. “You and the Brock are very different from what we’ve seen previously.”  
“Oh, that don’t sound good,” James says quietly.  
“First of all, there is nothing for you to be concerned about, okay?” Steve reaches out, not quite going for James’ hand, instead resting his own on the bed between them. “You’re beat up but you’re in good health, and the genetic coding is viable.” He stops, shaking his head. “I don’t exactly know how, but it is viable. You’re not going to experience autolysis or some kind of cellular breakdown.”  
“I don’t know what any of that means.”  
“It means you didn’t get Spliced with a single animals genetic material,” Steve says slowly. “The lab says this might be why you’ve had such an extreme response to the procedure.”  
“You can say ‘big fucking antlers’, Steve,” James snaps. “They said there might be skin discoloration or extra teeth or something, nobody mentioned horns!”  
“Nobody’s seen horns before!”

James falls silent, and rubs his hand over his eyes. What starts as a way to soothe his frayed nerves becomes thoughtful, curious. He rubs back and forth at the skin under his eyes, trying to pinpoint where the change happens, as if it could be felt.  
“Okay, so what’s the other thing?” he says at last. “I mean it’s something to do with my face, right?”  
“As far as we can tell.” Steve opens a saved search on his phone. “Digging through the DNA is kind of like rifling through a sock drawer, so best guess is a mustelid, something like that. The results were inconclusive.”  
“A mustelid?” James says slowly, and Steve nods.  
“The genetic code is-”  
“Like a weasel,” James interrupts. “Steve, am I a fucking weasel?”  
Steve laughs, he can’t help it. James looks so incensed at the thought of being a weasel. “You’re not a weasel, Buck.” He hands over the phone. “Here.”  
James silently scrolls through the article Steve had brought up, pausing over the pictures of Polecats in the wild. Steve had found them endearing to look at, their long, sinuous bodies and the bandit mask over their eyes. The descriptions had been fitting: playful, intelligent, troublemakers.  
“Well, fuck.” James tosses the phone down on the bed. “Why couldn’t I be a mountain lion or a wolf or something?”  
And just like that it’s hard to keep smiling. Steve picks up the phone, slipping it back into his pocket. “You don’t wanna be a wolf, pal.”

James sniffs, easing himself back down onto the bed. “Ferret, huh?” he says quietly.  
“Not necessarily.” Steve watches him closely. “It could be any number of things. There’s -”  
“Ferret,” James repeats, and Steve doesn’t push it.  
There’s a counselor on staff, if you need someone to-”  
“Nah,” James interrupts. “What about Brock? What’s he then?”   
“James, that’s not -”  
“No, I’m serious. What is he, a Honey Badger?” James sits forward. “Tell me he’s a Honey Badger.”  
“He’s not -” Steve stops himself, taking a deep breath. “Their best guess is boar,” he says slowly. “And he’s not a Honey Badger, he’s… some kind of mustelid too. Most likely a Wolverine.”  
James sits back. “So what, they looked at us and said let’s try some hooves and weasels on this batch?”  
“You know that’s not how it works.”  
“And why deer? What use is a deer?” James shakes his head, antlers clattering against the IV stand and making it roll across the floor.  
It’s a question that has been at the back of Steve’s thoughts too. Why a deer? They’re not especially fast or strong. “I don’t know, Buck. I wish I did.”  
“I’m sorry,” James murmurs. “Just let me… let me get a handle on it all.”  
“You need time to process,” Steve says softly, and James glances at him. His hair is starting to dry, losing the wet shine and softening the sharp lines of his cheekbones.  
“Process,” he agrees, and reaches up to touch his mouth, pressing until he can feel the intersecting rows of flat teeth hidden behind his lips. He glances at Steve again. “Pretty cute, though,” he says, the corner of his mouth ticking up.  
“Very,” Steve agrees. He is.


	3. El Ciervo

Hidden away in the far corner of the Shield gym, Steve watches the Brock pause in his workout, swiping the sweat from his brow with a wrapped hand before beginning a new set.  
 _Brock,_ Steve reminds himself. _He goes by Brock._  
Brock, deaf to his audience, darts forward again, jabbing the bag in a fast one-two, then shouldering it away when it swings back towards him.  
“Good footwork,” Jack shouts. He’s been spotting Brock as he goes through his paces, looking on proudly. “Keep that chin tucked in.”  
Brock gives him a sly grin, swiping his wrapped hand against his mouth. The scars have faded some, but they still draw the eye. A cluster each on the far left and right of his lower jaw. Where the tusks had come through, the medical team had concluded. Steve had seen the X-Rays, and missed a few nights sleep.  
“Hands up,” Jack shouts. “Don’t get soft on me.”  
Brock pulls his balled fists up to his chest, shuffling forward to strike and darting out of the way as the bag swings back.   
Steve has seen enough, and walks over to Jack’s side, watching the wordless exchanges going back and forth between the two. There is a clear connection between the two, an unspoken vocabulary of twitched shoulders and soft grunts that speaks a shorthand only the other can parse. Steve isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not, and tucks his hands in his pockets, waiting for Jack to notice him.  
Brock give him away with a rasp and a tilt of the chin, and Jack opens up his body language. Friend, the loosening of his shoulders telegraphs. Safe.  
“Cap,” Jack says with a nod, his attention on the way Brock throws his punches. Even Steve winces as they connect with the bag, heavy and dull.  
“Hell of a jab,” Steve remarks, and Jack grins.  
“Kicks like a mule too, sir.”  
They watch Brock work on the bag for another minute, the otherwise empty gym silent but for the steady rasp of his breathing and rhythmic strikes of fists on canvas.

“So.” Steve pauses, choosing his words. “About the-”  
“Not interested,” Jack cuts him off.  
“Jack,” Steve says quietly, and Jack turns to him, shoulders back, tensed for a fight. In the ring, Brock lowers his wrapped fists, waiting for the signal to intervene.  
“Unless there’s something in his file,” Jack says, stiffly, like he’s gone over them in his head long before this moment. “If he’s done something illegal, or it says he might be a danger to the team, I don’t wanna hear it.” He draws in a breath, backing off. “Sir.”  
Steve lowers his gaze, nodding to himself. He’d suspected as much. “He wants a fresh start.”  
“Yes, sir.”  
Steve works his jaw, watching as Brock steps back from the bag, reaching out to stop its swinging. The data Natasha brought back was unremarkable, which in itself was… disheartening. A soldier injured on the frontlines, returned to the US with a medical discharge and no support structure. It’s not hard to guess how he wound up where they found him.  
What does it matter how he got there? It’s what he does now that counts.  
“I read your report,” Steve says, folding his hands behind his back. “You’re really pushing this?”  
“He needs discipline,” Jack answers quickly. He’s been jumping through hoops for Shield the last month, and they still have a long way to go. No wonder he’s on edge. “And a support structure. He needs to be part of a unit.”  
“And Shield can provide that?”  
Jack gives him a sideways look. “We’re more than a search and rescue op for Splices, sir, you know that. Strategic Homeland Intervention, it’s written in foot-high letters in the foyer.”  
Steve snorts at that. He walks past them every day, he knows what they mean. He also knows how hard Jack has been fighting for this, and it bothers him.  
“Be careful,” he says, his voice low. “It’s good that you’re advocating for him, but you don’t want to become dependent.”  
Over by the punchbag Brock calls time on his workout, glancing over at them as he unspools the wrappings on his hands.  
“Too late for that, Cap,” Jack murmurs.

Steve sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “Well, at least you’re honest.”  
The bravado slips, and Jack ducks his head. “So what now?” he asks, raising his head and squaring his shoulders like a man about to face the firing squad. “Do I get reassigned?”  
That would be advisable, reassign Jack to another division of Shield, find a new agent to work with Brock. But then the team would be down an agent, and who knows how long it would take to get Brock trusting someone again. He’s not an easy guy to work with, even with Jack’s care. That he’s not a Feral, that he’s walking and talking and eating lunch in the canteen is almost enough to have Steve believe in miracles again.  
But that’s not the truth of it. Oh, it’s what he’ll say to Hill when she pulls him in for a meeting, and it’s plausible enough to satisfy her, but it’s not the real reason for what he’s about to say.  
“What’s your housing situation at present?” Steve asks.  
Jack is silent for a minute, struck dumb by the non-sequitur. “I. Uh. I rent. Got a place in Queens.”  
Steve nods. “Long term contract?”  
“Uh. Short.” Jack frowns at him. “Why do you ask?”  
“You should apply for an apartment in the residential block.” Steve tilts his head to one side. “It’s not exactly luxury living, but Shield won’t sign off on him relocating off-site, at least not any time soon.”  
“Cap?” Jack frowns, looking for the punchline in some nasty little joke.  
“I’ll co-sign the application,” Steve continues. “You never know when a spot will open up, so you’d better get a move on.”  
“Sir?” Jack’s voice pitches up a little, enough to get Brock’s attention.   
“You know what you’re getting into?” Steve says. “You go the official route there will be questions, you’ll both have to sit through psych evaluations. And I strongly suggest you go official, you keep this under wraps and it all blows up, they’ll have your badge.” And mine.  
“Yeah,” Jack says, still twitchy, a man who lived through DADT in the Military, and old habits are hard to break. “Yeah, we ain’t keeping it secret.”  
“So get on with it.” Steve nods to the pair of them before heading for the door. “No sense going half measures.”

*

The physiotherapy department is on the same floor as the gym, and Steve walks through, nodding to the nurse sitting at the reception desk. He finds James in the usual suite, tapping lightly on the door before letting himself in.  
Splicing is traumatic, and few survive the process. The ones that do often struggle with their new physiology and need some help adapting. Sometimes it just means exercises to build up muscle groups, other times it requires corrective surgery. Few Splices will let a stranger manhandle them, especially when they are weakened or compromised, so it takes a special kind of person to work with them.  
“Hey, it’s the Cap!” Luis calls out at the sight of him. James glances over his shoulder, and Luis taps him gently on the back of his head. “Eyes front, _Hurón_.”  
“Aw, come on,” James gumbles good-naturedly. “You couldn’t go with El Ciervo or something? I could be an El, Steve tell him I could be an El!”  
“You’d make a great El, Buck,” Steve assures him. Luis however is less accommodating.  
“Nah, man. You’re a Hurón, no question. Too cute to be un ciervo.”  
“This is discrimination,” James grouses, returning his attention to his exercises. There is a thick loop of elastic attached to the wall, and he grasps the other end in his left hand, keeping his elbow bent and close to his side. He pulls on the elastic while Luis watches, occasionally offering up advice and instructions.  
“How’s that feel?” Luis nudges his elbow when it starts to drift out. “You feel that in your shoulder blade, right?” He pats James’ back, tracing the curve of bone moving under his skin.  
“Yeah,” James agrees, and Luis turns back to Steve with a grin.  
“You see our boy here? Look at that form, my dude is killin’ it!”  
“Looking good, Buck,” Steve agrees.   
“Jackasses,” James counters, but has a proud little smile tugging his lips when Luis has him switch sides for the next set of reps.

Steve hangs back while Luis goes through the rest of the routine, moving on to a set of small handheld weights and slowly performing a set of elbow extensions. Luis chatters throughout, a gentle stream of encouragement peppered with advice that Steve listens in on, watching the flex and bulge of James’ bicep and the light sheen of sweat coating his skin.  
“So Hurón here is gonna be able to do all this in the gym, right?” Luis looks to James for acknowledgement, and he gives a breathy little grunt. “Nothing over 5lb though, you hear me? Do more reps if you wanna be challenged, but we’re strengthening muscles, not building them, you feel? Same with the neck and shoulders, it’s all there to support all the business you got going on up top.”  
“Yes, mom,” James sighs, switching to the other arm.  
“Hey, you’d be lucky to have me as your mama.” Luis pinches James’ cheek. “I’d fatten you up, hijo.”  
James endures the pinching with good grace, despite having a set of weights to hand.  
“So anyways,” Luis changes tack faster than Steve can keep up with. “You know what I’m gonna say now, right?”  
“No,” James retorts.  
“C’mon, man.” Luis takes the weights from him and puts them to one side.  
“No.”  
“Yoga.”  
“No.” James’ voice pitches up a little.  
“You need to build up your core muscles, bro,” Luis insists. “You don’t have to wear the pants.”  
“Still no.”  
Luis swings around to Steve. “Hey Stevie, you gotta back me up here.”

Steve is too quiet for too long, momentarily flustered by the mental image of James in yoga pants. He’s not even entirely sure what yoga pants are, but his mind helpfully supplies something sleek and form-fitting instead.  
“Uh?” Steve realises that he’s been staring vacantly while the pair of them wait for an answer. Heat rises on his cheeks, and he coughs, scrubbing at his jowls as if he could massage the blush away. “What?”  
“Cool.” Luis swings back around to James. “That’s settled, I’ll get you both signed up for some yoga classes.”  
“Wait what?” Steve yelps.  
James, damn him, grins suddenly, as if the thought of contorting himself in public was suddenly more appealing with Steve there to make a fool of himself.  
“Oh no.” Steve holds his hands up, stepping back. “No, I don’t-”  
“Don’t you come at me with that negativity, bro.” Luis shakes his head, emphatic. “Hurón here needs some core strength and flexibility but you?” Luis gives Steve a slow once over, taking in every detail with laser focus. It’s like being mind-probed by a giant Hello Kitty. “And you are stressed, man. You’re carrying all that anxiety in those big-assed shoulders.” He gives Steve a light prod on the bicep. “What’s his heart rate like right now, hurón?”  
“Elevated,” Bucky says with a grin. Goddamn traitor.  
“El-e-vate-ed.” Luis prods Steve’s arm with every drawn out syllable, which only makes his heart rate kick up a little more. “You need to practice some mindfulness, bro! I know your job kinda sucks, and you’re wired all the time, so you need to do some deep breathing exercises, center yourself, become self aware of your body and all that good shit.”

The last thing Steve wants is to be more aware of his own body, but he’s not going to tell Luis that. “Who said I was wired?” he asks instead.  
“Nat.” Luis gives him a wide-eyed look of innocence. “She told Clint, who told Scotty, who said she oughta be careful what she said on account of you being so wired and cranky.”  
“And Scott told you?”  
“Nah, Scotty would never tell tales, you know that.”  
There is the start of a headache pulsing behind Steve’s eyes. “So who told you?”  
“Oh!” Luis points at James. “Hurón here did. Turns out he can, like sense heartbeats, like that fella Laufeyson down in Acquisitions? The one with the tongue?”  
Luis pokes out his tongue, and Steve suddenly knows exactly who he’s talking about. “Loki.”  
“That’s the guy, so anyway Hurón says you get a spike whenever you get more paperwork, an’ also when you have to meet with Coulson. An’ when you talk to-”  
“Okay, that’s enough,” Steve says, with an edge of bitterness he can’t quite mask. He glances over at James, who gives him a hopeful little smile, the kind that creases up the corners of his eyes and makes Steves heart kick and stumble, and damnit has he noticed that too?  
“C’mon,” James says softly. “Keep me company.”  
Steve has never been good at admitting defeat, but just this once he relents. “Sure, Buck. Sign me up.”  
It’s worth it to see him smile, quickened pulse be damned.

Luis finishes up the session, giving James a few pointers before scheduling an appointment for next week. This one will most likely be his last, as his shoulder is pretty much healed, and Luis has no shortage of patients in need of treatment.   
It has become a routine, accompanying James to his sessions. At first it was so Steve could make sure he was safe and at ease with a stranger handling him. Then it was convenient, Steve could spend a few minutes with Luis after the session working on the weekly progress report. Then it was habit, and Steve isn’t sure what he’ll do after next week. After the session they usually go get coffee, at first it was in the staff canteen on the upper floor, and in more recent weeks out in the world, giving James a chance to acclimatise to city life. And to give the city life a chance to get used to him. The people of New York pride themselves on being too cool to take a second look at the strange and bizarre, which is probably why so many Splices choose to make it home. But a handsome man with a full spread of antlers will make even the most hardened New Yorker do a double take. It’s only a matter of time before he gets a feature in Humans of New York.  
And what will he do when James isn’t around?  
It’s only a matter of time before he leaves, once he’s given the final all clear from medical all that’s left is for him to decide where to go, and so far he hasn’t been very forthcoming on that.  
Steve will help James, just like he’s helped all the Splices before. He’ll walk around apartments with him and go through the classifieds with him and pack his few possessions into cardboard boxes and carry them into his new home. They’ll exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch, and James will mean it at first. But little by little a new life will replace the old, and he’ll be just another number in Steve’s phone that never calls.  
And that’s okay. It’s good, he’s head of rescue and rehabilitation, and the day they stop calling is the day he knows he’s done his job.  
So why does the thought of James being nothing more than a string of digits in his cell phone history hurt? Why is this one an ache, deep and pulsing, buried under his ribs.

“Steve?” James murmurs. “Where are you?”  
Steve blinks, shaking his head. “Nothing.” Give gives James a brief smile. “Just wondering where to get coffee.”  
James tilts his head up. “How about here?”  
Steve should point out that he needs to get out more, see another little bit of the world. But then James would call him a hypocrite, and the thought of one more hipster cafe with a questionable idea of what counts as furniture has him nodding. “Sure thing, Buck.”  
They take the elevator up to the canteen, Steve nodding at the other agents who alight and depart on the way while James rotates his shoulder, trying to work off the residual ache from his physio. The mirrored walls no longer bother him, though for the first week or so he avoided his own reflection. The marks around his eyes are permanent, a form of hyperpigmentation, and though he had been offered laser treatment to reduce the effect of it, James had declined. He had also declined the offer to remove the horns, accusing Banner of wanting them up on his wall. Banner took the accusation with good humour, even when James sent him a hacksaw engraved with _Bruce Banner MD_. He mounted it on a little plaque and put it up in his office.  
Steve can’t imagine James any different now, the smudged bandit mask and antlers as much a part of him as his blue eyes and loping stride.

Natasha and Barton are in the canteen when they arrive, Barton working his way through a slice of pizza while Natasha nurses a cup of coffee. James goes over to join them, taking a seat next to Barton while Steve gets their coffee. By the time he reaches the table the three of them have already fallen into conversation.  
James makes friends easily, more so than Steve does. Sometimes Steve feels like getting along with people must have been one of those things they taught in school, and he’d been off sick with flu for it.  
“I’m just saying,” Barton says around a mouthful of pepperoni. “My place in Bed-Stuy ain’t half bad. The neighbours are nice enough, an’ this old guy does cookouts on the roof. Really great ribs.”  
“I don’t know.” James takes his coffee from Steve with a quick smile. “Not sure I want to live in a city. Too much going on all the time.”  
“Oh yeah, I get that.” Barton gestures with his crust. “You got the smell thing too, right?”   
James nods. His olfactory senses are pretty much off the chart but his day vision isn’t so great. Nor is his night vision, much to his disgust. His eyes are mainly suited for the hazy hours of dawn and dusk.  
“You don’t have to move,” Natasha adds as Clint starts gnawing on a pizza crust.  
“Nat,” Steve rumbles, not quite a growl.  
“What?” She gives him an innocent look, like he doesn’t know better. “I’m just saying he could stay. The Intelligence division offered him a position.”  
Now that is news to Steve. “Since when?” he yelps. James gives him a guilty look. If he had little weasel ears they would be drooping now. “James?”  
“It came through a couple days ago.” James fidgets with his coffee cup. Laufeyson put forward the recommendation.”  
“That little s-”  
“Snake,” Natasha finishes smoothly. “Listen Steve, I know you don’t like the whole cloak-and-dagger business but intelligence is part of Homeland Intervention and Enforcement, and Laufeyson one of our best agents.”  
“Loki is a jerk,” Barton offers sagely.  
“Which is beside the point,” Natasha says, voice raised a little. “If he says James is covert operative material then-”  
“I don’t…” James hesitates, tugging a long strand of his dark hair. “I don’t think I’m taking the job.” He gives Natasha an apologetic little grimace and gestures to his antlers. “I’d have to give up these things, and where else am I supposed to hang the tinsel at Christmas?”  
“They said what?” Steve snaps, but James isn’t listening.  
“Nat, I appreciate the offer, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I could be…” he shifts, uncomfortable. “Mean.”  
For a minute no one speaks, and Steve nudges James with his shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, pal.”  
Natasha studies her empty cup, not happy but willing to take no for an answer. “So, what do you want to be?”  
James shrugs. “I don’t know.”

There’s little to be said about that, so no one pushes him to examine it further. Steve half suspects that James is dragging his feet because he’s resisting the change. He has friends here, and no worries about making rent or paying bills so long as he is in Shield’s care. He knows more than most that the world is a dangerous place, and as long as he refuses to have his appearance cosmetically altered, he’ll always get stared at. Who can blame him for wanting a little more time.  
“Hey, Rogers,” Nat says, changing the subject. “You pick up the latest report on the Sokovia Splicers?”  
“D’you have to call them that?” Steve says, casting a glance James’ way. “Yeah, I skimmed it. It’s unlikely they’d set up another base so soon, all their equipment has been impounded. These guys will go to ground like all the others, trust me.”  
“I’m not so sure. Pierce -” Steve lets out a sharp little sound. “Pierce was a believer. He thought what he was doing was for the betterment of mankind. These people strike me as having a whole other motivation.”  
“And what’s that?”  
“Money.”  
Steve shakes his head. “What money? For supersoldiers? That was a dead end, it died with Pierce and his… fucking eugenics.”  
“None of the bodies we found were the usual Splices,” Natasha points out. “No dogs, no big cats. When was the last time you saw a raptor? In Sokovia we saw _herbivore_ Splices, and why the hell would anyone do that?”  
Clint clears his throat. “So. Uh. James here, well we all know what he is. And you say Brock is a boar or something?” Steve nods at him to go on. “Well, I know one thing they got in common.”   
“Oh,” Nat says softly. “Oh, shit.”

“Hey guys!” The head of Engineering climbs up into an empty seat opposite James. “What’s with all the long faces?” He slams his latest prototype on the table, followed by a travel mug filled with half a dozen espressos. “I mean I know I’m one to talk, but…”  
Steve clears his throat, pulling his thoughts into order. “Nat, I need you to follow up on that idea. I doubt they’ll have done much advertising, but ask around, see if there was any talk a few months ago about… big game hunting, wild boar, I don’t know. The kind of shit rich dentists are into.”  
“On it,” she says, rising to her feet. Barton scrambles to follow after her.  
“So what, no one’s gonna say hello?”   
“Hey Rocket,” Bucky says fondly. He reaches across the table to tap knuckles with the raccoon.   
Rocket was one of the first Splices to survive the process, before Pierce refined the technique. The results were not what he had desired, a creature neither animal nor human, but something uncomfortably between the two. Pierce’s attempt at euthanasia had been unsuccessful, and was a nasty shock for the animal control officer who’d scooped Rocket out of the trash. There were rumors of a pig Splice somewhere over in Chicago, but Steve found that hard to believe.  
“S’up.” Rocket obliges James, balling his paw into a fist and giving him a bump. He sits back, tearing open a couple of caffeine powder sachets and dumping them into his coffee. Steve feels his jaw clench as Rocket takes a gulp, sighing in satisfaction.  
“James still hasn’t got a job,” Steve says, fumbling for something to talk about.  
“Jeez, you should’ve said.” Rocket picks up his prototype, it looks like a cross between an outboard motor and a set of curling tongs. “Come work for me in Engineering.”  
“And do what?” James asks, looking incredulous. “I don’t know the first thing about engineering.”  
“Eh,” Rocket shrugs. “We’ll drink some beers, blow some shit up, whaddya say?”  
James turns to Steve, wide eyed and hopeful.   
“I don’t think that’s exactly gainful employment,” Steve says, and James lets out a loud whine.  
“Nah,” Rocket agrees. “But it would be funny, right?”

Rocket ignores Steve’s best stoney glare and gulps down another mouthful of coffee, droplets catching on his whiskers. “So what are ya good at?” he asks, banging the mug on the table and going back to his prototype.  
“Uh.” James scrubs at his inky eyes with the heels of his hands. “I could work in a gift store? People could hang jewellery from me or something?”  
“Buck,” Steve says softly. “You’re good at a lot of things.”  
“What?” James counters. “I got a decent sense of smell, shitty eyesight and I have to go through doors sideways.”  
“You’d make a pretty decent thief,” Steve says absently.   
“Very funny,” James sighs.   
“No, he’s got a point,” Rocket chips in. “You could steal stuff for a living, I mean that’s in your skillset.”  
James sighs, resting his elbows on the table and cradling his chin in his hands. “Okay, fine. I’ll be a diamond thief.”  
“You’re too big and clumsy for diamonds,” Rocket points out. “Go for something bigger, but not too big, no oil paintings or gold bars.”  
“Data chips,” James suggests. “Thumb drives.”  
“Yes!” Rocker points a clawed finger at him. “That’s the kind of stuff you should be stealing.”  
“I’d end up in prison,” James sighs.  
“Just a suggestion,” Rocket shrugs. “You gotta come up with something fast, ain’t you being discharged soon?”  
“My medical review is in two weeks,” James says. He sounds tired. He is tired. Transitioning is always hard, having to build a life from scratch with little memories of the past. Some Splices have a clear idea of what they want to do, while others struggle to find a path.  
“You don’t have to decide the rest of your life by tomorrow, Buck,” Steve reminds him, and James huffs in acknowledgement.

Maybe it’s the forlorn look in his eyes, adrift in a future he has no grasp on. More likely it’s the thought of a tomorrow coming soon where Steve won’t have this, sitting together over coffee, their shoulders brushing, that makes him open his mouth.  
“You could always stay with me.” The words come spilling out, unbidden, filling the air between them before he can swallow them down again. “While you figure it out.”  
James sits up sharply, giving Steve an odd, hard-edged stare. “Really?”  
Rocket joins in the staring-at-him party, and Steve tamps down on the urge to slope away, tail tucked between his legs. “Yeah,” he huffs, brittle and defensive.  
While Rocket goes back to his work, James remains bolt upright, every sense trained on Steve. It’s unsettling, how he doesn’t blink, how motionless he is, a predator in sight of prey.  
“Is that allowed?” James asks, leaning forward a little, and Steve could half swear the guy was trying to sniff him.  
“Yeah, sure.” Steve tries to brush it off as no big thing. “No reason why not. I’ve got room.”  
James sits there, his expression blank, and it feels like a lifetime passes in the distance from one heartbeat to the next. Long enough for Steve to regret offering, to regret a lot of things. Then James smiles, wide and open and full of joy.  
“Okay,” he says, his voice so soft Steve can barely hear it. Rocket slams his mug on the table, and raises it in the air.  
“Roommates!” he shouts, and Steve has a coughing fit, quickly suppressing it for long enough to hold up his own cup. “Roommates,” he repeats.  
While they all clink their mugs together James leans in to Steve’s ear, his eyes shining behind the bandit mask.  
“You realise that means you’re stuck with me, right?” he teases, and Steve wouldn’t have it any other way.

*

Once the decision has been made, the next two weeks seem to slip through Steve’s hands like sand.  
James passes his medical with ease, thanks in no small part to Luis’ enthusiastic report, and gets his discharge papers.   
He packs up the few possessions he has accumulated while in the residential block; a few books gifted from Steve and a meccano set from Rocket. He’d claimed that it was to help hand eye coordination, and it was pure coincidence that James had made a sizable trebuchet with it. The basket was large enough to hold a single satsuma, which was usually the ballistic of choice to be aimed at Steve’s head when he wasn’t looking.  
The entire existence of James Doe (Splice: _Mustelidae/Cervidae_ , age: unknown) fits in a single archive box, and the Pepe le Pew stickers that Barton had dotted all over the lid doesn’t make Steve’s heart ache any less.  
For once he suggests taking a cab to the apartment, hoping to spare James from all the people staring at him on the subway. New Yorkers take pride in not looking twice at the strange and wondrous, and even Rocket can take the L without getting bothered. But New York is also a city full of tourists who stare and take photos on their cellphones, whispering to each other about the freaks they’ve seen in Midtown.   
Hill is forever on Steve’s back about his insurance premiums, and how much paperwork is involved when yet another phone is confiscated and crushed under his heel. Broken phones have to be replaced with Shield funds, she reminds him.  
James decides on taking the subway.

The journey is quiet enough, and there are seats available. Steve squashes his large frame into a corner, his gaze drawn to the window. James takes the seat beside him, box on his lap and elbows propped on top, causing the thin board to bow in a little.  
A kid stares openly at them both, a girl of six or seven, one hand gripping the folds of her mother’s skirt. James pulls faces at her, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his eyes, until she lets out a giggle and pokes her tongue out at him. The mother glances at them and away again, a silent test that they somehow pass. Two stops later they leave the train, the girl pulling her ears out and rolling her eyes as they shuffle past.  
The apartment is open plan and mostly empty, but for a bookshelf in the living room filled with old paperbacks. High ceilings and wide doorways that can comfortably accommodate a spread of antlers. Steve knows that it looks unlived in, but prefers to call it clean and orderly.   
There is a second bedroom that’s never been used, a couple of wide, thin boxes from IKEA and a plastic wrapped mattress taking up most of the floor space.  
“Uh. Yeah.” Steve scratches the back of his head. “I was gonna take care of that.”  
James shushes him, putting the box of his worldly goods to one side and kneeling down to tear open one corner of the largest box. He fumbles around for a minute before pulling out an A4 sheet of instructions, symbols and pictographs of odd-looking screws and lengths of pine.  
“Don’t worry,” James grins, reaching into the box again and retrieving a plastic bag of screws. “I got this.”  
“Okay.” Steve watches dubiously as James empties out the bag, counting out the little pieces of dowel and strange twists of metal. “I’ll go make us some coffee.”

The coffee when drunk is followed by another, and an hour later another. Steve, kicking around the rest of the apartment feeling out of place in his own home, keeps skulking back to the doorway to check on the progress. The biggest of the boxes didn’t contain the bed, much to Steve’s surprise, but a bookcase that is now taking up wallspace by the door. The meccano set and a handful of books have been arranged on one shelf, alongside a couple of empty cups.   
James is sitting cross-legged on the floor, pushing little barrel-shaped pieces of metal into a piece of wood. He looks up at Steve leaning against the door and grins.  
“Give me a hand?”  
It takes most of Steve’s willpower to not bound into the room, impatient to get involved. He steps onto the litter-strewn carpet, nudging a rogue allen key to the side. “Sure thing, Buck.”  
James hands him the post, then picks up another identical one and pushes a couple more fittings into the holes bored in one side.   
“Okay, so you gotta line up these holes.” He points to another set of holes in the side of the post. “Against these ones.” He points to a plank of wood on the floor between them. “And put them together with these… uh… doohickeys.” Lastly there is a small pile of odd little screws lying on the instructions. “You got that?”  
“No,” Steve admits, and sits down on the floor, picking up one end of the plank and pairing it up with the post. “Not that it’s ever stopped me before.”  
James chuckles, rolling some screws across the floor towards him, and they get down to work.

It’s late in the evening by the time they finish, and Steve goes around the room collecting up the plastic bags and stray bits of wood that they couldn’t find a use for while James fits a sheet onto the new mattress.  
“You want to order in?” Steve asks, wondering to himself what they’re going to do with so much cardboard. They can’t keep it, James will only use it to build a fort.  
“Pizza,” James declares, losing the battle with the duvet cover, which has gotten wrapped around an antler. “A little help?”  
Steve watches him stumble in a little circle, encased in IKEA’s second cheapest cotton bedding. “Nah, you look like you can manage.”  
James yells “No anchovies!” as Steve backs out of the room laughing so hard his chest aches.  
It feels good, better than he has done in a long time, and he’s still grinning as he phones in an order for a large pepperoni with extra cheese.

By the time the pizza arrives James has defeated the duvet, and regards his room with a palpable sense of pride. The cognitive dissonance between human and animal instincts are not that hard to reconcile, all life coming from the same ancient source. Steve can understand the nesting instinct, the need to make a den, and picked out a bed with enough ground clearance that James can sleep underneath it if he needs to, though not enough to accomodate the antlers. The boxes he’s already knocked into one corner in a mound, and gets twitchy whenever Steve suggests taking them out to recycle.  
They decamp to the living room, piling onto the couch to seat pizza slice by greasy slice, washed down with a bottle or two of beer. When the pizza is reduced to a few crusts James takes a walk around the apartment, half-drunk bottle swinging from his fingers. The food and beer have made him relaxed in a way he never was in Shield, loose-limbed and fuzzy round the edges.   
After sniffing around the kitchen and looking through the cupboards, James scopes out the living room. He’d already picked through the pile of magazines on the table during dinner, flicking through the copies of _Time_ and _Men’s Fitness_ before tossing them aside. The bookshelves hold the most interest for him, and he picks out old paperbacks one-handed, flicking through the pages while sucking on his beer before putting them back. Steve lets him investigate, working out the extent of his territory and where the line between ‘yours’ and ‘mine’ is marked beyond the separate bedrooms.  
Steve is a little fuzzy on where that line might be. It feels safe, it feels right, having James there with him in a way that he’s not inclined to look too closely at, so he settles back on the couch and savours his beer, listening as James reads aloud from the back covers of his books.

“Who’s this?” James calls out suddenly, holding up a photo that was tucked between the pages of a book.  
Steve, slumped on the couch with his eyes half-closed, feels all the peace and contentment that has built up over the last few hours evaporate, and jerks upright.  
“Give me that!” he snaps, striding towards James with his hand outstretched. But James is faster, skittering out of Steve’s reach, holding the photo aloft.  
“C’mon, Steve, who is it?” He runs over to the couch, jumping onto the cushions and over the back, Steve grasping at the air behind him. “A little brother?” He pauses to look at the photo while Steve lumbers around the couch, holding it up to compare them. “I’m seeing a family resemblance h-”  
Steve makes a grab for the photo, and James ducks out of the way, light on his feet in a way Steve could never hope to be.  
“Oh, touched a nerve there!” James dives over the couch, clambering over the coffee table and scraping the ceiling with his antlers as Steve chases after him, knocking the pizza box aside and sending uneaten crusts flying. “Ex-boyfriend?”  
Steve upends the coffee table and James laughs, dancing out of reach, all lithe and graceful, and goes haring off to the kitchen.   
“Damnit James,” Steve yells after him. “Give that back!”

James reappears in the doorway a second later, and Steve practically has to dig his heels into the carpet to keep from running into him.  
“You called me James,” he says, looking worried. The whole time Steve had been chasing him around the apartment he’d been laughing his ass off, and now he looks wounded. “You never call me James.”  
“Give it back,” Steve mutters, and James hands the photo without a word.   
It’s nothing special, just an old 4x6 photograph of a skinny little kid with a mop of blond hair and a black eye. Steve takes it to his room and shoves it in the top drawer of his dresser, under the paired socks, where no one can get their hands on it. When he comes back to the living room James is collecting up pizza crusts and dumping them in the trash. His shoulders are slumped, his head down, and Steve feels a bitter sting of guilt.  
“I’m sorry,” he says, soft and weary. “It’s… it’s personal.”  
“You don’t have to explain.” James doesn’t turn to look at him, just starts picking up the couch cushions off the floor and putting them back. “Ain’t none of my business.”  
“Still no excuse.” Steve hovers in the doorway, acting like a stranger in his own damn apartment. “I overreacted.”  
“Nah, it’s fine.” James drops the last cushion in place. “Nothing’s broken.” He gives Steve a sly grin. “Not like you could ever catch me.”  
With that smile it feels like all has been forgiven, and Steve ventures into the room. “Oh, is that how it is?” he murmurs, picking up the coffee table and setting it to rights.  
“Yeah. That’s how it is.” James grins, the inky skin around his eyes creasing.

The air cleared, James goes back to his exploring. He avoids the bookcase for now, as if wary of unearthing something else, and goes poking around the bathroom instead. He opens every bottle of shampoo and shower gel he finds, sniffing the contents before putting them back where he found them. The shaving supplies interests him, as someone who gives his face a half-hearted once over with an electric razor when things get too itchy the whole business is apparently fascinating. He gives the aftershave a wide berth, the pungent tang of alcohol and tea tree too sharp for his sense of smell, and plays around with the razor, twisting the heavy silver handle to open and close the razor head, revealing the sharp blade within. Steve watches the performance from the doorway as James brushes the soft shaving brush against his cheek, then stifling a laugh when he picks up the bowl of shaving soap and gives it a tentative lick. James hums to himself, finding the taste of sandalwood pleasant enough, and carefully puts it back where he found it.  
“What’s this?” he asks, picking up an object that looks like a silver ice lolly stick, its surface rough to the touch.  
“It’s a…” Steve hesitates. “It’s a tooth file.”  
James gives him a hard look. “I’m not filing my goddamn teeth, Rogers.”  
“Hey,” Steve holds his hands up. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But if you did…”  
“I’m fine the way I am.” His tongue catches his teeth, making the _f_ a _fth_.  
“Yeah, pal. I know,” Steve says gently, plucking the file from his hand and putting it back on the shelf. “Forget about it, okay? You’re perfect the way you are.”  
He is perfect. This close Steve can breathe in the scent of him. Wild honey, earthy and complex.


	4. Wolf and Hart

Weeks stack up like books on a shelf, and the apartment that had once been so neat and orderly begins to fill with clutter.  
It shouldn’t be too much of a shock, Mustelids are prone to hoarding and despite the antlers James is far more weasel than deer. Steve’s empty shelves fill up with bits of old cutlery that James has twisted into strange shapes, and pieces of hardboard cut up with craft knives. What they could possibly be for is a mystery to Steve, but so long as it’s not food he’s piling up, Steve doesn’t intervene.  
The food that he does stash about the apartment - sandwiches and power bars and half drunk cups of coffee - Steve does a daily collection for. James sulks on the couch and tries to jab him with his antlers as his treasures are unearthed, poking out his tongue at gentle reminders about New York rats and food poisoning. In the end they find compromise, where James only hides prepackaged candy bars and cookies and Steve tries not to notice them poking out from under the couch.

When not mangling cutlery with pliers or pressing random bits of plant matter in the pages of Steve’s books, James has a sketchbook that he’s always scribbling in. He hisses, only half in jest, when Steve tries to sneak a look in it.   
So Steve doesn’t look. He doesn’t look and he doesn’t ask, and he buys himself a sketchbook. He used to draw, a lifetime ago, and it hadn’t even occurred to him to pick it up again, not until he watches James sat with his feet on the couch, tongue poking out between his dull teeth as he drags a pencil across the page.   
Watching James draw makes something ache in Steve’s breast, a quiet pulse of regret, or want, he isn’t quite sure. So he goes out and buys a book on his lunch break, with a black hardcover and spiral binding, The pages inside are thick and rough, the edges fuzzed. Putting a pencil to the coarse paper evokes the strangest sense memory, like the taste of coffee after so long without.  
His hands remember a lot more than his head, and only half as much as his heart. He remembers the scratch of graphite on paper, the satisfaction of a sharp point tracing an even curve, but not how lightly to apply pressure when shading. It is an exercise in frustration, trying to force his big, clumsy hands to be delicate, and he fills page after page with his efforts.  
James encourages him, in that subtle way of his, and sets the laptop on the coffee table. He finds guides on Youtube and leaves them playing whenever Steve is around the apartment, and Steve pretends not to watch them.  
When the first book is filled he buys a second, and another one for James too. He buys a range of ink pens with nibs as fine as an eyelash, and grumbles quietly when James steals them. They watch old recordings of Bob Ross, sketchbooks set aside in favour of a bottle or two of beer, and Steve smiles at Bob’s talk of happy little trees.  
He’s happy. The realisation comes quietly, curling around his heart. He’s happy.

*

With James’ discharge, Steve goes back to being on active duty, and though there are no search and rescue missions underway (he doesn’t think thank God at that, just because there is no word, doesn’t mean it’s not happening somewhere) it doesn’t mean he’s sitting idle.

“Hey, Cap?” There is a light tap on the open door, and Natasha leans in. “You got a minute?”  
Steve pushes aside the report he should be reading. “Yeah. What’s up.”  
She doesn’t come in right away, which is never a good sign. “You had lunch yet?”  
She doesn’t ask anything without good reason, so he shakes his head. Only then does she come into the room, and holds out a tablet. “Managed to dig this up from the archive of a… charming online chat forum.”  
Steve takes the tablet. On the screen is a discussion thread dated four months ago. There is a picture at the bottom of the thread, fuzzy and grey, as if taken at dawn or dusk. In the picture a man kneels, dressed in shop-bought army fatigues. Over his bent knee rests a hunting rifle. Both hands grip the kind of large, curved horns you might see on an Ibex or a goat, holding up the dead Splice for the camera.  
“Jesus,” Steve whispers. Natasha takes the tablet from his numb hands.  
“Fed it into the facial recognition software,” she says quietly. “See if we can find a match.”  
“What about the Splicers?”  
“What’s in the thread was a dead end,” Natasha admits. “But if we can find this guy, wave a first degree murder charge at him.”  
“He’ll talk,” Steve finishes, rubbing his eyes as if he could block out the image. “Christ, the shit they put on the internet.”  
“It was deleted thirty less than a minute after posting,” Natasha points out. “But nothing ever really disappears.”  
Steve nods, still fighting the rise of nausea. “Keep me posted.”

The image still stays with him, long after Natasha has left. Steve stares at the far wall, trying not to put James in the place of that unfortunate Splice. He fails each time he tries.  
When there is a knock at his door he looks up and sees James, and it takes a moment to realise that it is really him, and not some terrible after-image.  
“Steve?” James looks worried. “You okay?”  
Steve shakes his head, then realises that he should have nodded. “Yeah. Fine.” He gestures vaguely at his desk. “Just… work.”  
“Uh-huh?” James looks unconvinced, folding his arms across his chest. He’s wearing a sweater that used to be Steve’s, at least until James cut out the neck to fit his antlers through. Menace.  
“What are you doing here?” Steve asks, gathering up his files. “Is Nat still trying to get you a job?”  
“Thought I’d buy you lunch?” James tilts his head, tine knocking against the door. “Whaddya say, you, me and mass catering?”  
“I can’t, Buck, not today,” Steve says reluctantly. “I’m on a review panel in…” He checks his watch. Crap. “Ten minutes. But if you wait around we can get a coffee after?”  
“Yeah.” The word is dragged out a little as James scratches his chin. “No can do, pal. My induction starts at one.”  
“Induction?”  
Jame sticks his hands into his pockets, looking guilty. “I kind of start work today?”  
“Work?” Steve rises to his feet. “You’re working for Shield?”  
“Nah.” James’ shoulders draw up around his ears. “I’m working for Rocket.”

It shouldn’t be a surprise, not really. James can’t spend the rest of his life building Steve traps in the apartment and mauling silverware, he has to get a job somewhere.   
The more James reassures him that he’s just learning how to manufacture things (probably true) and they will not be blowing shit up (definitely a lie), and the more he talks, the less reassured Steve feels.  
Of course someone at Shield was going to offer him work. Even Natasha had been trying to get him signed up to Covert ops when he was still in the Medical facility. James is on first name terms with half the staff, including Hill. He has a way with people that Steve was maybe a little envious of, he radiates compassion in a way that is hard to dislike, befriending anyone he spent five minutes with.   
He is the kind of person who remembers your name, or when your kids birthday is. He knows what your allergies are, and how you take your coffee, and always has time to look at photos of your dog.   
Hell, most of the people in their apartment knew his name, and by extension Steve’s. After nine years of being known as apt. 306 that takes some getting used to.  
“Steve, it’s gonna be fine,” James says, slinking out the doorway like the weasel he is. “Don’t you have a meeting?”  
Steve opens his mouth to argue, but his phone bleeps, his ten minutes are up, and there’s a review panel waiting.   
“This isn’t over!” he shouts, but James has already gone. No doubt to Engineering to chew caffeine pills like candy and set things on fire.

The rest of the review board is already seated when he arrives, and he apologises for the delay, taking a seat beside Hill. He nods to Banner, who is providing medical expertise, and to the few Agents he knows by sight but not by name. James probably knows their names.  
“For the record,” Hill begins. “This panel has convened to review the progress of reintegration of -” She turns her attention to the two men sat before them. “You are taking the name Brock Rollins, is that correct?”  
“Y’sm.” Brock clears his throat. “Uh. Yes, ma’am.”  
“And you understand why you are here?”  
“Uh.” Brock practically vibrates with tension. “You wanna make sure I’m domesticated.”  
Hill smiles reassuringly. “Not quite the term we’d use, but yes. We’re here to ensure that you are not a danger to society, or to yourself. The people here who have worked with you have provided statements, Dr Banner a medical assessment, Captain Rogers and myself a review of your field work. Jack Rollins has also spoken highly of your abilities.” She glances at Jack. “But you understand that, although we have taken on board his statements, we are not including them in the official records.”  
“Because we’re -”  
“Yes.” Hill doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “Dr Banner, when you’re ready.”

Steve rests his chin on his fist, and listens to Banner run through everything that’s already in his report. While Shield does not intervene in the actions of two consenting adults, an Agent getting involved with a Splice, especially one they brought in themselves, raises questions. Jack and Brock have gone through every psychological evaluation Banner and his team can come up with, shown themselves to have active, independent social lives outside of work, and each other. But something about seeing the pair of them bothers Steve, something he can’t put his finger on.  
He flicks through the paperwork one last time. They spend regular time apart, and Steve has seen first hand how well they work together. On paper they are not flawless, but functioning, same as the rest of the world. And Steve is not going to raise a red flag over his gut, at least not until it can offer citations.   
With a suppressed sigh he flicks to the last page and scrawls his signature. Brock’s voice trails off, watching as he signs off the paperwork on their future.  
“Cap?” Jack questions as he closes the file.  
“I don’t see any reason to drag this out,” Steve says plainly. “There is no reason to keep these two Agents from active duty. Jack, I hear that you have made progress on the Sokovia Splicers?”  
“Closing the net as we speak, sir,” Jack answers.  
“We have more important things to deal with, don’t you think?” Steve asks the others, pushing the form across for their signatures. Banner is the first to pick up his pen.  
“Well, that’s settled,” Hill says, nodding to the pair. “Thank you for your time.”

Steve heads up to the canteen, hoping to grab a cup of coffee and five minutes respite. Instead he finds James and Rocket, sniggering loudly as they work on some contraption or other. One of the tines of James’ antlers is smoking slightly, and the room smells faintly of the willow charcoal James likes to sketch with.  
“Oh, hey Steve!” Rocket shouts, and there goes his last chance of peace.  
“What the hell happened to you?” Steve grouses, reaching out to touch the charred antler. James pokes him in the gut with them often enough that he’s earned the right, and his finger comes away smudged with black.  
“There was a…” Rocket waves a paw. “Rapid oxidisation followed by an energetic disassembly.”  
“You mean you were blowing shit up?”  
“It’s fine,” James reassures him. “The ringing has almost completely stopped.”  
Steve sighs, pulling out the empty chair next to him and sitting down. “I swear, Buck.”  
“How did the review go?” James asks, changing the subject.  
Steve sighs again, because no one seemed to care the first time. “Fine. Brock is now a full field Agent.”  
James and Rocket exchange a look, and a moment later twenty dollars.  
“Really thought you’d shoot him down,” Rocket admits as James plucks the note from his paw.  
Steve grimaces, and James gives him an odd look, almost troubled. “Here, get us two coffees and a pastrami on rye.”  
Rocket glares at the money being shoved back at him. “That ain’t enough for -” James stamps his foot, dragging the toe of his boot along the ground. “Alright! Jeez,” he grumbles, clambering down from his chair and stomping over to the counter.

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” The smile James gives him looks more like a grimace. “Splices and agents.”  
Steve lets out one last sigh, something bone weary that seems to have been dredged up from his boots. “It’s not… It’s not that.”  
James picks up the contraption he and Rocket had been working on, and starts to fiddle with it. “Sure.”  
“C’mon, Buck,” Steve’s brows twitch together. “I signed them off, didn’t I?”  
“Yeah.” James’ mouth twists. “You look thrilled about it.”  
Steve opens his mouth, then thinks better of it.  
“Steve-”  
Okay, so maybe he won’t hold his tongue for once. “Vulnerable,” he says. “When Splices get brought in… they’re vulnerable. They look to us for protection, for help, and we can’t take advantage of that.”  
“You think Jack-”  
“No,” he’s quick to shut that line of questioning down “Of course not. I just think that he could have done things in a way that maintained a strictly professional relationship.”  
“What, like us?” James snorts. “You think what you did with me was ‘strictly professional’, huh?”  
“Buck…”  
“I wear your underwear.” James leans to one side and tugs down his belt with a thumb, revealing a strip of branded elastic. “How’s that maintaining a professional relationship?”  
“What the hell?” Steve snaps. “I told you to buy your own damn clothes!”  
“Now why would I do that when I got yours?” James grins at him, all teeth.  
“Asshole,” Steve murmurs, far too fondly, and James goes back to his fiddling.

“Is it really so bad?” James asks softly, catching Steve off guard.  
“No, of course not.”   
James doesn’t often circle back to something once the discussion is over, he’s almost unbearably reasonable about letting things drop. Steve, on the other hand, is a proverbial dog with a bone, and has never let a single thing go in his life. Once he picks a fight that’s it.   
He knows he’s stubborn, but he also knows that James isn’t, and if he keeps bringing something up it’s really bothering him.  
“It’s not that it’s bad.” It’s hard to put it into words, that gut instinct. But he tries. “It’s just these things can turn ugly, believe me. Splices can get obsessed over their agent, or vice versa, and I know things have turned out okay for Jack, but that doesn’t mean it always work out.”  
“But it can work, right?” James presses. “People make it work.”  
Steve looks up at him, still tinkering away at that contraption. Only now that he’s looking he can see that Jame is just looking busy, he’s not actually doing anything. Why is this so important to him? He’s never said anything about it before, so why is he fixating on it now? James and Brock aren’t exactly close, each one reminding the other of what they’d been through, and James is more likely to hang out with Rocket and Barton than Brock and Jack.  
“What are you getting at?”  
James lets out a frustrated little huff. “I’m saying people generally make it work, right? Look at Clint and Nat.”  
Steve frowns. “They’re not…”  
“No, but they’re getting there.”  
Steve hesitates. “You don’t understand,” he says at last, dropping the conversation as Rocket brings over their coffees.

The sandwich that’s dumped in front of James gets gently pushed over to Steve.  
“C’mon,” James says softly. “You missed lunch.”  
“Buck -” Steve begins, but gets cut off by Rocket.  
“Hey, gimme back the Aero-rig!” He snatches to prototype from James’ hands.  
“You’re really calling it that?” James asks, and Rocket gives him an annoyed look. “Okay, fine. Call it whatever you want..”  
“Hmpf,” Rocket sniffs. “I’m going back down to Engineering. You coming?”  
James holds up his cup. “Gotta finish my coffee.”  
Rocket gives the pair of them a once-over. “Eh, fine. See you guys later.”  
He saunters off, leaving them to the quiet of the post-lunch canteen. There are a handful of people scattered around, hunched over their laptops with their coffees, no doubt struggling through a backlog of paperwork or trying to catch up with assignments. Steve’s been there before, more times than he cares to think. He appreciates the need for checks and balances but at times it feels like his life is spent filling out forms and not actually doing anything.  
James is patient, Steve gives him that, and doesn’t say another word until Steve has swallowed his last bite of sandwich.  
“What don’t I understand?”  
“Christ, you’re relentless,” Steve huffs.  
“And you’re a stubborn ass,” James counters, but there’s no malice in his tone.  
“Look.” Steve carefully places his cup on the table between them, buying himself a few seconds to think. “I don’t have a problem with Splice being with Splice. Hell, sometimes the only person who gets what you’re going through is someone who’s been there.”  
“Nat isn’t a Splice.”

Steve should have been more careful with his cup. He flinches, the jerk of his fingers sending coffee sloshing onto the table. It’s only a few drops, easily swept away, but it shows his hand.  
“I know the rumour going about is that she’s a spider, that she’s the one who brought in Clint.” James moves Steve’s cup to one side. “But Nat ain’t a Splice.”  
“You…” Steve clenches his fists and slowly releases them. “You can tell?”  
“He found her, right?” James asks, and when Steve doesn’t answer he keeps talking. “You can see it, the way he watches her. He’s seen her at her worst, and she trusts him with that.”  
“She was in prep for the procedure when we raided the facility.” He hadn’t even meant to speak, and the words seem to come from nowhere. Not nowhere, somewhere in the pit of his stomach, where all the secrets lie in tangled coils like serpents. “I missed her. In the first sweep of the labs I missed her. All the panic and the… all the…” The _smell_ of that place. The dying and the irrevocably changed, and the goddamned amateur Splicers who didn’t read the formula correctly. “Barton found her, and she wasn’t a Splice but he took care of her.”  
James listens in silence, and when Steve is done talking nudges his foot with the toe of his boot.  
“What?” Steve murmurs, nudging back.  
“You gonna be okay with it?” James asks. “When they figure it out? I mean she’s an Agent, he’s a Splice, that’s the worst case scenario as far as you’re concerned.”  
Steve groans, slumping in his seat. Put like that, he does sound like an unreasonable dick. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”  
He takes another sip of coffee, a little of the weight he carries slowly sloughing from his shoulders. The next breath comes a little easier, and the one after that is almost painless.   
“I meant what I said, Buck,” Steve mutters, breaking the silence. “Stop stealing my underwear.”  
James starts laughing, throwing his head back and cackling so hard he starts coughing.

*

Working for Rocket should have been the start of a seismic event. It should have been the first ripples in a great sea-change that left Steve adrift. With work comes wages, and apartment hunting, and finally the day when James stands in the doorway, all the things that he owns packed in boxes (the clothes he has picked up here and there, the odd twists of pewter and silver that fill his pockets and the random assortment of cutlery bought at garage sales). Steve’s spare key left on the coffee table and not in James’ pocket where it belongs.  
It should have been the end, but it’s not.  
Steve doesn’t ask, or leave out the vacancies section of the local paper. He doesn’t warn James that he should be saving for a deposit when he spends his wages on a winter coat or goes out drinking with Luis (coming home late with a takeout bag filled with tamales for Steve). He tries not to look at the bank statements left on the coffee table, at the money slowly accumulating in a savings account, even with them splitting rent. He lets James quietly inhabit every inch of space in his life, and does not think about what he’ll do when they are empty again.

*

“Mother _fucker_ ,” James hisses, and throws his pencil across the room.   
Steve is walking in from the kitchen at the same moment, and the pencil smacks his shoulder, dropping to the floor.   
“You alright there, Buck?” Steve asks, picking up the pencil and taking it back to him, like a faithful mutt returning a thrown stick.  
James is slumped on the couch, sketchbook open in his lap. There are pens scattered across the couch cushions, disappearing down the back, and for once he doesn’t slam the book shut at Steve’s approach.  
“I suck,” James announces glumly, taking the pencil.  
Steve brushes a few pens aside and sits down next to him, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder at the page he’s working on. “Can I help?”  
James scowls at him. “You’ll laugh.”  
“I won’t.”  
James narrows his eyes, suspicious, and hands over the book. 

The first man to lay his hands on the Ark of the Covenant could not hold a candle to how Steve felt in that moment, mouth drawn into a tight line to keep from making a sound. He looks down at the page, at a series of odd, curved pictographs, and when James doesn’t stop him, he turns the page.  
It takes a few minutes to parse what he is seeing, twists and curves and loops and spirals. He recognises the flared blade of a fish knife, the even tines of a fork, the stately profile of a silver dollar.  
“Is this…” Steve frowns, trying to parse what he is seeing. A peso with what looks like a middle finger cut into it. A palette knife etched with serpent scales. “Is this jewellery?”  
“Yeah.” James draws his knees up, looking dejected.   
“That’s what you’re doing for Rocket?” Now that he knows what he’s looking for, he can see it clearly; a serving spoon fashioned into a bracelet. A fork twisted into a tie pin.  
“He’s teaching me how to use his equipment.” James mumbles. “See what I’m good with, or what I like working with, before investing in my own gear.” He gives Steve a sideways look. “Like, did I want to do silver casting and that kind of thing. Which I don’t, in case you were wondering. And I’ve been saving. I mean I can’t exactly set up a workshop here, and even though I prefer working with hand tools a buffer still ain’t cheap.”  
“You’re saving for a workshop?” Steve blurts out. “You’re not moving out?”  
The markings around James’ eyes makes it hard to tell when he’s blushing, but his tells are obvious once you know them. The way he bites his lip, the way he shakes his head from side to side.  
“I mean yeah. If that’s okay with you?” James’ eyes dart in every direction but Steves. “I just. No place I’d rather be, y’know?”  
There is a lot Steve can say to that. But he doesn’t.

“So what’s the problem?” Steve asks when they have both been silent a while.  
James sinks deeper into the couch with a groan. “Okay, so Rocket has been giving me these projects, right? I mean he figures once I’m up and running people are gonna be asking me for commissions and all kinds of stuff, and I need to be able to…” He hesitates, as if embarrassed by his own capabilities.  
“Be creative,” Steve finishes.  
“Yeah, I guess.” James gives his sketchbook a dour look. “Only now I’m stumped.”  
“Okay.” Steve leafs through the pages until he reaches the latest sketch. Now he knows what he’s looking for it makes a bit more sense: a four-pronged fork with most of the handle removed, leaving a shape with four legs and a tail jutting up like a flag. Attached is a rough triangle shape topped with two pointed ears. “It’s a dog?”  
“It’s a pile of shit,” James grumbles.  
“It’s not…” Steve pauses. It is. “It doesn’t have the… finesse of these other pieces, that’s true.”  
James presses his face to his drawn up knees. “Shut up.” It comes out muffled, but no less emphatic.  
“No, they’re really good!” Steve insists, flicking back a few pages to a different fork, this one with tines twisted to look like a tree. “These are really good, Buck. I’m proud of you.”  
James makes an inarticulate sound, embarrassed and pleased and unwilling to show either.  
The dog is kind of cute, but it’s not in the style of the other pieces. “Why were you making a dog?”  
“It was for you.”

James climbs to his feet, struggling a little from sinking so far into the sofa. He paces around the room, restless and agitated, and Steve does his best to keep still.  
 _It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean a damn thing._  
Steve reaches for a pencil lying on the coffee table, and slowly starts to sketch a dog in the corner of the page. It looks a little like the one James was trying to make, or at least he thinks it does. A scruffy little terrier with its ears cocked. “Why were you making me a dog?”  
James pauses long enough in his pacing to glare at Steve, then lets out a little huff and resumes his circuit of the room.  
Steve sketches a knife and fork, thinking about the other designs in the book; the scales etched into the palette knife, the holes cut out of coins. “So what’s your process? How do you come up with the ideas?”  
James sniffs, wandering over to the bookcase, all hunched shoulders and taut spine.  
“I don’t know, I just… Look at them. Try to see what’s already there.”  
“So you prefer to work with, what? Found objects? Not make new things from scratch?”  
James drags his index finger along the spines of books stacked neatly on the shelf. “I like..” He pauses, heaving out a breath of air. “There’s all this old stuff that gets lost, right? Watches that get broken and silverware that gets tarnished. Someone dies and the contents of their kitchen drawer get tossed into a box with a price sticker. Doesn’t matter that this was her favourite paring knife because she liked the way the handle fit in her palm, or that was a watch he was given as a gift. Without them it becomes scrap.”   
Steve’s breath hitches, but James doesn’t seem to notice.  
“I guess I like…” James rolls his shoulders, shrugging off something Steve can’t sense. “I like making them worth something again, is all.”

It’s easy to draw a parallel, and Steve doesn’t give voice to what he’s thinking. No doubt James already knows what’s going on in his head. Hopefully not everything.  
“So you’re doing it all backwards,” he says, holding out the book. “You’re trying to force it to be something it’s not.”  
James gives him an odd look, walking over to reclaim his sketchbook.  
“It looks wrong because it’s not supposed to be a wolf?” James asks, and it’s easy to draw a parallel there too.  
Steve goes into the kitchen, and opens the drawers. It doesn’t take much rummaging around to find a few pieces of silverware, and only now does he notice that they’re short a few things. He could have sworn he had more forks for one, and where the hell is the corkscrew? He realises after a moment of searching that he doesn’t care.   
He takes his haul back to the living room, dumping them on the coffee table.   
“Tell me what you see.” He smiles, sitting back down.  
It’s fascinating watching James work, picking through the teaspoons and steak knives in search of inspiration. Steve picks out one of the few remaining forks, twirling it around in his fingers while James taps the blades of two butter knives together, humming to himself. He glances at Steve, brows furrowed, and sees the fork in his hands. He’s holding it by the neck, letting it balance precariously at a slanting angle. James frowns, watching the handle bob up and down.  
“Give me that.”

While Steve watches from the couch James sits on the floor, legs crossed and sketchbook open in his lap. He starts with the curved bowls of a pair of spoons, drawing them face to face in an egg shape, the severed handles tapering to a welded point. Then the handles are added to the opposite end from the point, rising up at a jaunty angle.   
A _tail_ , Steve thinks, and there it is. A bird, small and round and sprightly. James adds the final details, giving length to the egg-shaped body with the rounded ends of butter knives, and little clawed feet of what looks like pickle forks. The tiny rounded bowls of sugar tongs shape the head.  
James holds up the sketch proudly. “What d’you think?”  
Steve smiles. “Looks great, Buck.”  
“Come on, man,” James lowers the sketch. “Work with me here.”  
Steve takes the book and picks up his discarded pencil. After giving James another look, checking that it’s okay to add to the sketch, he sets to work. In a few quick strokes he adds another rounded spoon to the top of the birds head, giving the shape some definition. He adjusts the angle of the butter knives, making the wings more streamlined, and puts a little bend in the legs.  
“Perfect,” James whispers as he hands back the book.  
Steve grins, feeling light-headed. “You know I expect 50% of the takings, now we’re business partners.”  
James slams the book shut. “Oh, _are we?_ ”

James is on his feet before Steve registers it, his movements fast and light. He tosses the book onto the table, prowling towards Steve. His spine is straight, his head cocked, and there is something in his predatory stare that sends a thrill down Steve’s spine.  
“Only fair,” he adds, licking his lips as James stalks towards him.  
Steve tilts left a moment before James pounces, but it’s a feint, and he throws himself to the right, rolling over the arm of the coach as James hits the cushions with a yell. James is on his feet a moment later, charging after him again.  
Steve has been cornered too many times to dart into the kitchen, and James will call foul if he runs for his own room, so he leaps over the coffee table and makes a wide circuit of the room, managing to avoid James’ grabbing hands and gouging antlers. While James is built for speed and agility Steve makes up for it in strength, and when James manages to get in front of him, blocking the relative safety of the couch, Steve goes on the offensive. He barrels into James, shoving him backwards until they tumble in an ungainly heap, breathless with laughter, onto the couch cushions.

James huffs, a breath of hot air brushing Steve’s cheek, and wraps both arms around him. Instead of pushing away, instead of rolling off the couch and laughing it off, Steve settles into the embrace, raising himself up on his elbows to meet James’ bandit mask eyes.  
James stares up at him, blue eyes warm and bright. When he leans up it’s slow, carefully telegraphing every movement, and presses a kiss to Steve’s lips.  
It is an offering, an invitation, and he withdraws a little, waiting to see what happens next. Steve follows him, blindly seeking out the taste of his mouth, and James surges up again, a predator striking after so long lying in wait.  
Kiss is too dainty a word, too polite and respectful to describe the way James fastens their mouths together. Kiss doesn’t measure the force with which he plunges his tongue between Steve’s teeth, prising his jaws apart. It doesn’t describe his hands against Steve’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin, or the twist of his spine as he pulls Steve into him, desperate for every inch of contact.  
Steve opens up to him, swallowing down everything he has to offer and more, anchoring his hands in the dark mass of James’ hair and cradling the base of his antlers.   
It is something more brutal than a kiss, something wilder and feral. James’ teeth may be flat but they are also sharp-edged, and catch on Steve’s lip, blood sweet and copper in the back of his throat. He would gladly be devoured, the sharp animal scent of James filling his lungs as he was gnawed to the bone.

With a few uncoordinated movements Steve settles in the splay of James’ thighs, feeling the hard press of cock against his stomach. He rolls his hips, his own cock hot and heavy against the seam of his pants, trying to find a rhythm that works for the both of them. James whines, high and sharp, muffled against the ceaseless motion of Steve’s lips. Fingers catch against his shirt, the fabric tearing as James pulls at the hem, trying to strip it off without breaking them apart. Thwarted, he drags the flat of his hands up Steve’s back, tracing the line of his spine before sweeping down again. His fingers brush the waistband of Steve’s pants as he swallows around his tongue, and he eases a hand under the elastic of his underwear.  
Of all the things to pull Steve out of the moment, it’s not the scratch of teeth on his tongue or the thick cock digging into the crease of his thigh, but the way James’ thumb pauses, tracing the knot of scar tissue at the base of Steve’s spine.

Steve recoils, pulling their mouths apart with a faint sucking sound. He shoves back, hands getting caught in James’ hair, and struggles, half panicked in his attempts to get away.  
“Hey,” James murmurs, pulling his hand out of Steve’s pants before he winds up with a broken wrist. “Hey it’s okay.”  
Steve tries to say something sensible, but all that comes out is a snarl. He rolls to the floor, coppery strands of James’ hair twisted around his fingers, heart in his throat.  
“Steve?” James says softly, moving after him until Steve throws his hand up, silently urging him to back off.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve gasps. Where moments ago his skin had felt on fire now he is shivering, reeling from the shock of it. “I’m sorry, we can’t.”  
“Shh.” James inches closer, hands alighting on Steve’s shoulder and darting away again, as if afraid of touching him but unable not to. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”  
Steve swallows down the urge to yell, shaking his head. “This isn’t… this isn’t real,” he says slowly. He’s said it before, to other Splices struggling to find their footing in a changed world, and desperate for something Steve cannot give. “You’re imprinting on the first person to treat you kindly, that’s all this is.”

James sits back, regarding Steve with utter contempt. “You’re full of shit, Rogers.”  
“No.” Steve wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips damp and reddened. “This is transference. You’re mistaking compassion for…” he can’t bear to say it out loud. “You’re infatuated. It’s not real.”  
“Bullshit.” James folds his arms across his chest, closed off and on the defensive.   
“It’s not real,” Steve repeats, the words tasting bitter. “You’re just mis-”  
“I’m not isolated,” James counters, holding up his right hand to check off his points. “You made sure that I have other friends, both in and outside of Shield, and spend time outside the facility. Hell you pushed me out into the damn world like you wanted to get rid of me.”  
“No,” Steve shakes his head emphatically. “I just wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to do well.”  
“Yeah?” James’ nose wrinkles, pugnacious. “So why did you kiss me back?”  
Steve slumps, unable to answer, and lets his head drop.  
“You’re a real asshole, Steve,” James mutters, drawing up his knees to his chest. For several long minutes they sit in silence, Steve desperately sifting through what to say, how to fix things, and when he comes up with nothing he stays silent. He’d only make things worse.  
“Ain’t you tired?” James asks, and he sounds as exhausted as Steve feels. “Ain’t you tired of pretending? You can file down your teeth, cut away the parts that show what you really are and hide behind your person mask. But ain’t you tired?  
 _Yes_.  
Steve rubs his hands over his eyes, as if he could scrub everything away. “How did you know?”  
“You smell like a wolf.” James smiles, brief and fleeting. “Wet fur and musk. You fucking stink of it.”

Steve hauls himself to his feet. His body aches, the scar at the base of his spine throbbing. He can sometimes feel the ghost of it, the tail he had begged Shield to amputate.  
He walks off to his bedroom, and finds the photo where he’d left it, and carries it back to the couch like the peace offering it is.   
James takes the photo warily, looking between it and Steve as he sits down at the other end of the couch, keeping a careful distance.  
“That was me,” Steve says, expecting to hear a dubious snort. James doesn’t make a sound, staring at the photo in search of similarities. “I know it doesn’t look it, but that was me aged seventeen.”  
“It’s you.” James sounds so certain. “Same eyes.”  
“I was a scrawny little kid, had this thing called CVID.” James looks blank. “It’s an immunodeficiency disorder. Meant I got hit with every virus going, as well as anaemia, rheumatoid arthritis and bronchitis. Hell, if it ended in ‘itis’ I had it.”   
“That sucks,” James says, handing the photo back.  
“It did.” Steve puts it face down on the table, it’s hard to look at even now. “It was manageable with blood transfusions but that cost money and my mother…” He draws in a breath. “She got sick. Died not long after that picture was taken.”  
“So you went looking for a miracle cure,” James finishes.  
“I couldn’t get a job, couldn’t pay for treatment.” Pierce had been so understanding, so charismatic, and Steve had nowhere else to go. “I was a triumph, he said. A perfect amalgam of human and grey wolf. And then he sold me to the highest bidder.”  
“Jesus fucking Christ,” James whispers, clambering across the wide gulf between them and pulling Steve into his arms.

Steve resists at first, until James calls him a goddamn idiot, his grip tightening. It seems impossible, to let go of what he’s been carrying so long, to place it in someone else’s hands to hold for a while. It seems impossible, but it isn’t.  
He curls around James in increments, like ashes settling in a fire long since burned out. Wouldn’t that be something? To just slough off your weary flesh and float away.  
“So did you have a tail?”  
Steve comes back to himself with a jolt, and gives James a half-hearted glare. “Asshole.”  
James grins, giving him a gentle poke in the ribs. “Look at you, all grim-faced and dramatic.” He pokes Steve again, making him yelp. “Goddamn, Steve.”  
Steve grabs his hand, and James threads their fingers together, his grip loose and easy to shake off, not that he ever would.  
“So what happened?” James asks, the weight of him pinning Steve to the couch. It would be easy to kiss him, so much easier than rehashing what had happened next. How he’d broken out of his confines and taken down his new masters. Or Shield picking up his distress call and sending in Hill, flanked by the Strike team, to bring him in.  
“Shield picked me up. I got offered a job,” Steve says simply.  
James looks down at him with concern, and Steve will tell him everything, someday soon, when the touch of his lips isn’t so shocking and new.   
“Darlin’,” James murmurs, with such sweetness and sorrow. “You alright?”  
Steve blows out a breath, stirring the stray hairs falling over James’ face. “I don’t know.”  
James nods, taking what he’s been given and not pushing for more. Steve reaches up to stroke through his hair, the action instinctive and soothing.  
“You know I love you, right?” James says, his lips brushing Steve’s ear. He must hear the trip and clatter of his heart.  
“Yes,” Steve answers, drawing his fingers through dark strands of hair burnished with copper.  
“And you know you love me too, right?” James adds.  
Steve pauses, curling his hand under James’ chin.  
“Yeah.”  
James kisses the palm of his hand, before pushing it aside in favour of sweeter places for his lips.

***

The knock on the workshop door is tentative at first, and Steve doesn’t notice it. The noise doesn’t affect his sense of smell, and he catches the perfume before he hears the knocking.   
James has a Cuban 20 centavos piece in the G clamp and is methodically sawing out the silver star in the center. Today’s fairy lights are pumpkins, a string of battery powered Halloween decorations draped across the tines of his antlers. At least these ones aren’t flashing, yesterday’s were chunky plastic fireflies, and the constant flickering had given Steve eye strain.  
“Back in a minute,” Steve says as he puts down his pencil, giving the design for a pendant a last, critical look before getting to his feet.  
James nods, too focused on his work to look up. He unscrews the G clamp and repositions the coin.  
The workshop is a decent size for the two of them, with a separate reception area up front. James handles the commission works and sales most of the time, but Steve handles the people who come in off the street.   
Wolf & Hart bespoke jewellery has a reputation for unique handmade gifts, and not every customer walks through the door is aware of how literal the name is.  
Steve is always on at James to do more advertising, but while they’re run off their feet on word-of-mouth sales as it is, it hardly seems worth the effort.

Steve ducks his head through the doorway to the reception, and sees a woman in her mid-thirties waiting. There are a few comfortable chairs available but she has chosen to look at the wall, where they have put up framed examples of finished pieces.  
“Hi there,” Steve says, scrubbing his hands through his hair. It’s still a little tangled and sticking-up in places from a pre-lunch make out session, and he hopes that there are no hickeys visible above his collar.  
The woman gives him a wary smile. “Steve, is it?”  
“Yeah.” Steve checks the calendar up on the wall, doing some quick calculations. “If you’re looking to a custom piece I’m afraid it’s gonna be at least three weeks before we can even fit you in for a consultation.” He holds his hands up, apologetic. “But if you’re in a rush I can recommend-”  
“Oh.” She shakes her head. “Oh no, I’m not… I mean.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. It is worn and creased, as if the contents had been read and reread over and over. “I… you sent me a letter.”  
Steve smiles, wide and bright. “Mrs Proctor,” he reaches over to take her hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”

Steve goes over to the door, flicking the sign from open to closed, and leads her by the hand into the workshop. James is still working on his centavos, singing along to an ‘80’s pop song playing on the radio as he runs a small file along the cut edges of the coin.  
“Hey, Buck?” Steve calls, and James reaches over to turn down the volume before turning around, lifting his red-tinted goggles to look at their visitor.  
“Hello James,” she says slowly. Steve hadn’t included a photo with the letter, but she doesn’t balk at his appearance, walking towards him with hesitant steps. “I don’t know if you remember me-”  
“Of course I remember,” James says, getting to his feet. He smiles, the inky smudges around his eyes crinkling. “Hey, Becca.”


End file.
